Daughter of the Underworld
by Finding Beauty
Summary: The story of Moulin Rouge, from Satine’s own point of view. Complete work, revised and updated 02.02.03. Please be thoughtful and review.
1. Into the Underworld

  
  


**Daughter of the Underworld**

  
  
  


**Disclaimer**: _Moulin Rouge_ is, of course, property of 20th Century Fox, Bazmark, and no doubt a few other respective companies; all the movie characters found within this fanfiction are not mine, and all song lyrics used were ones used within the movie. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Revision Note**: Though it has been nearly a year since I first began this story, and it was completed several months ago, I have recently gone back through and looked over it, and decided it wasn't quite an accurate reflection of my skills as an author any longer. I'm not to be misunderstood, of course – this story has been, and always will be, a labor of love, and holds a special place in my heart for so many reasons. However, I have decided to revise and rewrite parts of it, and you will find that several of the shorter chapters have been expanded upon, along with more 'between scenes' added.

**Author's Note**: Not to forget my dedication, this story is first and foremost dedicated to Brad, for being my very own penniless writer, and my muse as well; without his loving support and coercion into pursuing an in depth look at the character of Satine in the first place, this would not have been possible. Also, though at the time of this update it is yet an unfinished work, his story _There was a boy . . ._, under the pen name NotQuiteShakespeare, is to be considered something of a companion piece to this. Thanks also go out to everyone who's read and reviewed this, and kept me going in the rough times – this is for you.

  
  


**Chapter One**  
_Into the Underworld_

  
  


The most common assumption everyone makes about the self-proclaimed 'creatures of the underworld' is that we were all born into this life – that our mothers had all been little more than common courtesans, and our fathers merely a customer who'd happened along and, through some twist of fate, had an unfortunate side effect as a result. It isn't an uncommon occurrence, though it's often one that can land a courtesan on the street if she has an employer who isn't willing to allow her the unprofitable months it would take to have a child, should she choose to keep it.

It cannot be blamed on the people who believe such things that they do so – for after all, in a society of austere behavior and carefully dictated etiquette, it is difficult for those perfectly normal pictures of propriety to believe that one of their own could make the proverbial 'fall from grace' that it would take to land them in such a situation.

In my case, however, such assumptions were only that. My mother and father were married, and for the most part, I'd like to believe they were in love. Though they both died when I was only a small child, I have vague memories of them, and I know that I took my looks from my mother – my long, dark red hair, pale skin, and startling blue eyes made for an unusual, if interesting combination.

My height, on the other hand, was something my father gifted me with, my mother having been more the petite and delicate – and no doubt aristocratic – lady. For a long while, I resented the fact that it made me taller than most children my age, though eventually I came to appreciate the ability to look eye-to-eye with a man, even if they more often preferred that I take on a far more humble demeanor.

I recall very little about how or when my parents died, only that I was very young, and soon afterward given off to the care of a Parisian aunt – who for all I remember was my mother's older, disapproving spinster of a sister. Under her guardianship, I endured only constraints I forever longed to break free of, and years of threats to be sent off to an orphanage whenever I misbehaved.

My aunt called me a silly, fanciful girl, and insisted I should abandon my notions of becoming famous. She disapproved of singing, believing – as only those without any could – that children were meant to be seen and not heard, and as for dancing – well, dancing was another matter entirely, though not any more acceptable than singing.

Once I reached an age at which I decided her idle threats wouldn't be tolerated any longer, I ran away, taking only a porcelain doll I'd been given by my parents, and what belongings I could stuff into a small leather valise. Had I been older or in less haste to get away from what I saw as my inevitable prison, I might have thought to take money – but then again, how long would a handful of francs have lasted in the hands of a little orphan girl?

Not very long, of course, especially not on the streets of Montmartre. Even to this day, it strikes everyone with a certain sense of wonder that I could have ended up in the place that has been called a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, much less that I could have survived as long as I did. I stole what I needed to get by, until the fateful day upon which I met Harold Zidler – while trying to pick his pocket, no less – a man who would change my life more than anyone else with whom I have crossed paths as of yet.

I suppose Harold took pity on me, or perhaps he simply recognized my future 'potential,' though in my pre-adolescent state, I can't say I was different than any other street urchin, and by no means what one would call attractive. Whenever I chanced to see my reflection, I was met with an unflattering vision of a pale face with freckles that had yet to fade, and a build that was at best too thin for my height.

Harold and I reached an agreement, however – I would work for him, and in return he would provide room and board. It wasn't a bad arrangement, and certainly preferable to living on the streets, eking out an existence that was barely living at all.

The Moulin Rouge itself was unlike anything I'd ever seen; with my recollection of life before my parents' death like a faded photograph, the only things I had to compare the infamous nightclub to were my staunchly conservative aunt's home (always neat an orderly, and rather drab), and the filthy streets of Montmartre. Needless to say, the lavish – if somewhat gaudy – surroundings were different, and I somehow managed to feel at home in the strangeness of it all.

I started out under the supervision of Marie, for the most part little more than a seamstress – and I soon found that the skills I'd learned in the care of my aunt, otherwise thought useless, came in handy, such as the ability to mend and sew. In the beginning, I had the simple tasks, such as reattaching beads and buttons that had popped loose, until I finally progressed to repairing rips and tears in the elaborate costumes. _How_ such damage occurred, Marie most often chose not to tell me; in retrospect, I suppose she would have liked to have seen me remain innocent as long as possible.

By the time I had reached the status of actually helping fit the girls into their costumes, I was sixteen, and Harold decided it was far beyond time that I learned to sing and dance. I'd picked up a few things here and there from the older girls, but my talent was otherwise uncultivated, and I jumped at the chance. Performing was something I'd eventually begun to dream about, anticipating the day upon which I might be able to join the spectacle of the Moulin Rouge's extravagant shows.

Harold was a patient enough teacher, and the fact that I caught on fast only helped things along – though I'm sure he was quite annoyed along the course of time that I had taken to acting to such an extent that I didn't want to stop even when he tired. 'The show must go on' was an adage he coined often enough around the performers of the nightclub, but it was something _I_ turned on _him_ frequently in those days, until he finally conceded the fact that he had nothing more to teach me – and I was finally ready to join the can-can line.

I seized this opportunity to let my star shine as brightly as it would, and fortunately for me, it _glistened_. As the years passed and I became more experienced – gradually moving beyond the simple roles of dancer and singer to the more scandalous I'd for a long while only heard when alluded to – I gained a reputation there at the Moulin Rouge as the Sparkling Diamond. I became Harold's star attraction, and as long as I was bringing in the money, there were few luxuries he wasn't willing to afford me.

I loved the spotlight – it was as if I was born to be at the center of those shining lights. For me, acting wasn't about being someone else, it was being _myself_. The Sparkling Diamond, that wasn't me – that was only an act. But there was a difference between that and actually immersing myself into a role, into finding sympathy for a character, and my love for it eventually culminated in a longing that went beyond the more simplistic desires of a mere courtesan or can-can dancer.

Harold recognized the fact I had talented, but also my increasing restlessness with the fact it was being put to waste. Any girl could smile attractively, bat her eyelashes, and use her body to her best advantage, but I aspired to greater things.

My fondest dream was to be a _real_ actress, on a _real_ stage, in a _real_ theatre, not some cheap woman whose acting skill extended only so far as to play out the fantasies of whatever customer was willing to pay enough money at the time.

I knew how much men were willing to pay for me – but I wanted to test my own worth to _myself_.

And luckily enough, Harold had a plan.


	2. Plans and Dreams

  
  


**Chapter Two**  
_In the Planning Stages_

  
  


"Should this plan succeed, sparrow," Harold stated from behind me, "we'll see _both_ our dreams come true."

My dream, of course, was obvious, but while Harold shared my love of acting to an extent, I knew his dream included making a lot of money. The Moulin Rouge was incredibly profitable as a nightclub, and the fact he was willing to take such a risk on my aspirations was almost touching – until you realized he saw less the fulfillment of hopes and desires, and more the profitability in such an endeavor.

I stood at my dressing table backstage, in a small nook I had over the years claimed as 'mine.' Though none of us really had the privilege of individual dressing rooms, the little area was littered with my costumes, many which were unsuitable for the other girls without alteration in length. On a hook by the mirror hung a brass cage inside which a little bird chirped away happily. I'd adopted it as a pet a year or so before, as it reminded me of myself – and the day I finally made my dreams come true, I planned to set it free.

While Marie busied herself with the intricate fastenings of my costume for the opening number, I glanced toward Harold's reflection in the mirror, and saw he looked quite pleased with himself – and why should he not? If the plan _did_ work, our vision of the Moulin Rouge as a theatre would become reality.

The only problem now was that everything was being left up to me – Harold had found the financier to back the production, but _I_ had to win him over, however entertaining (if twisted) the thought of Harold in a corset and heels was for a brief moment.

"This Duke shouldn't be too difficult to convince, either," he went on with a note of boisterous confidence. "Just weave your web of magic, flatter him generously, and he'll be putty in your hands, duckling."

I turned around and gave him a skeptical look as I tugged on the first of the black, elbow-length satin gloves. It wasn't the first time I'd have to seduce an important client, certainly – I'd had nobility and politicians at the receiving end of my charms – but I didn't share his unfaltering confidence in my abilities.

The thought filtered into my mind that one of the other girls could do it – there were many who brought in nearly as much money as I did, and who had their own loyal followings. Arabia and China Doll were especially popular for their exoticism, men delighted over Nini's high kicks – feeling for certain she must be able to do quite a few other things with her legs – and even Môme Fromage kept up a good business in the Gothic Tower.

"Are you sure I should be the one to do this, Harold?" I asked after a moment. "Really, perhaps Nini –"

But he would have none of it. "Nonsense, cherub. You're the only one to do the job – besides, do you really want to leave this in the hands of someone else?"

"I suppose not," I responded reluctantly, and it was true. Though I still wasn't convinced that I was right for this, I was a perfectionist – I was the one who drove all the other performers in my routines crazy because I insisted upon going over them time and again until we got it just right.

Even still, I couldn't mask my trepidation – if I failed, all our dreams would be shattered. The Moulin Rouge would remain a nightclub, however profitable, and its employees just 'denizens of the underworld.' The Children of the Revolution wouldn't have their show, Harold would be missing out on a money-making opportunity, and I . . . I would be left as little more than a common courtesan, all my hopes of becoming an actress dashed.

Turning back to the mirror, I examined my reflection – the glittering costume, the heavy stage makeup, the elaborate hairstyle. I knew I was attractive; men called me beautiful, and they pandered over me, offered me money, jewels, favors – anything for my 'love.' Why was I to expect this one should be any different?

"I'll see you on the dance floor, cherub!" Harold exclaimed, grabbing up his top hat and running off to begin the opening number.

Soon I could hear the notes of his familiar routine with the Diamond Dogs sounding from outside – noting with some hint of nostalgia that I had once been part of that extravaganza.

_Because you can can-can_, I hummed to myself, reaching for a makeup pencil and touching up the lines of my eyebrows.

"Satine!"

The voice that sounded behind me was too high-pitched to be Harold, and I knew at once from the trademark lisp that it was none other than Toulouse-Lautrec, who had somehow managed to get backstage to me – somewhere guests at the club were rarely allowed, could the diminutive artist and his group of Bohemians really be considered guests. More often, they displeased by the bartender by bringing their own Absinthe, and if they made an order simply to pay for the space they were taking up, they ended up nursing whatever drink was offered.

I spun around to face him in surprise, though my expression was one of exasperation.

"Toulouse, what are you doing here?"

"I, ah – needed to talk to you," he lisped out, reaching up to remove his top hat and turning it around in his hands by its brim.

I quirked a carefully-penciled brow in response to this, and promptly turned back to the mirror in order to pin on my own hat.

He said nothing, perhaps silenced by this show of disinterest, and with a faint sigh of long-suffering I asked, "Well?"

"Audrey –" he stammered out, before exclaiming, "Audrey has left!"

Not having expected this, by any means, I gave a horrified gasp, watching my own eyes widen in the mirror.

I was already nervous, and this news did not lend a boost to my confidence. It meant, in short, that we were without a writer. And without a show to perform, how was that going to look in our presentation to the Duke? '_We'd like you to finance our show, only we don't have one yet_'?

This wasn't going well at all, but as I opened my mouth to respond, I noticed Toulouse seemed unabashed by the whole ordeal.

He straightened, and exclaimed pleasantly, "But luckily, we have found a replacement!"

I frowned, unimpressed and doubtful that any last moment stand-in for Audrey would be able to capably handle writing _Spectacular Spectacular_.

"Another one of your protégés?" I asked flatly.

"Well, yes! But this one is quite different, _very_ talented," he enthused, then – seemingly for good measure – added, "He is famous in England!"

I glanced over my shoulder at the much shorter man, who looked almost absurd in his evening finery, the sash of his cummerbund hanging nearly to his shins.

"If he's famous, why is he helping us?" I demanded, certain he was lying.

"Well, well . . ." For a moment, he seemed to be at a loss, before he spoke up again, "It doesn't matter that he isn't famous – yet! He is a _true_ Bohemian Revolutionary – he believes in truth, beauty, freedom, and – above all things – love!"

Yes, love . . . love, that ideal all the Bohemians held sacred, and yet so few actually experienced. I sighed softly, turning to face him fully.

"At least give him a chance," Toulouse pleaded, "I just _know_ you'll love him."

My distraction over the grand performance I was about to give was surely putting my nerves on end, and I had more important things to worry about than the Bohemian's latest discovery. Toulouse was trying a little too hard to push him off on me, but really, it didn't matter how good (or bad) this new writer was, as long as he got the job done. Once we had secured the Duke's promise of financial aid, we could always fire him and find a new one.

"All right," I finally answered reluctantly, putting away my skepticism for the moment.

The familiar music began to die down – cueing my opening -- and with one more hasty glance at the mirror, I turned and hurried away.

"When will you meet him?" Toulouse called out at my retreating back.

"I'll meet him after my number!" I returned, but I had more important things to worry about first.


	3. The Duke

  
  


**Chapter Three**  
_The Duke_

  
  
When the trapeze lowered in its shower of glitter and smoke, all my troubles were put aside. This number was one I knew by heart – I could even anticipate the reaction of the men crowded below me, enraptured into silence as they gazed upward, spellbound. This very entrance was part of my appeal – that I should first appear to them from such a lofty perch gave the impression of my being just out of reach, and of course, men always wanted what they couldn't have.

"_The French are glad to die for love_," I teased in a sing-song tone.

"_They delight in fighting duels.  
But I prefer a man who lives . . .  
And gives . . . expensive . . ._"

Here I paused, leaning back as the lights flashed back on, and finished in a whisper, "_Jewels_."

As I circled the crowd that evening, however, everything was different – my eyes searched the faces of the men, for once distinguishing brown eyes from blue, blonde hair from grey, and I wondered which of them might have been the one I had to dazzle above the rest.

"_A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,  
But diamonds are a girl's best friend._"

I descended into that throng of men, watching with showy amusement as each of them searched their pockets eagerly for any offering they might make to buy a night with me – rose bouquets, rolls of bills, diamond necklaces, it was all the same as usual.

"_A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental  
On your humble flat, or help you feed your – mrow – pussycat._"

I danced easily through them all, the entire time remaining the untouchable and unattainable thing I always was. It was what I was famous for – the men whispered to themselves at times that the Sparkling Diamond was just as cold as the real thing.

"_Men grow cold as girls grow old,  
And we all lose our charms in the end,  
But square-cut or pear-shaped,  
These rocks don't lose their shape!_

Diamonds are a girl's best friend.  
Tiffany! Cartier!  
'Cause we are living in a material world –  
And I am a material girl!"

I turned to wink over my shoulder at the men, beckoning them forward. "Come and get me, boys."

The music raged on, along with the cheers, and I relished in the attention, fully in my element. "Black Star, Roscor – talk to me, Harry Zidler, tell me all about it!"

The Tabasco brothers carried me off over the crowd, toward a platform where Harold waited. I ascended it with a flourish, and he joined me in the song.

"_There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer,  
But diamonds are a girl's best friend!_"

Harold made a show of dangling a glittering trinket just out of my reach, and I grabbed after it, pouting when he snatched it away again.

"_There may come a time when a hard-boiled employer  
Thinks you're awful nice, but get that ice or else no dice!_"

The other girls kept singing, while I turned toward Harold, tugging off one of my gloves as he continued to dangle the rhinestone-studded heart. "Is the Duke here, Harold?"

"Liebchen!" he exclaimed, "Would Daddy let you down?"

Eagerly, I looked toward the crowd, holding the glove up over my head. "Where is he?"

We rotated positions, and he searched around – and promptly gave a gasp of disdain. "He's the one Toulouse is shaking the hankie at."

Our places exchanged again so that I could look back in that direction, I leaned forward, squinting, until I laid eyes on the tuxedoed man Toulouse-Lautrec was waving his handkerchief at. He wasn't really what I had been expecting – he seemed young for his title, wide-eyed and naïve, certainly not the type of self-absorbed older men I was used to dealing with. Though I figured deep down he had to be just like the rest, maybe my job was going to be a little easier than I thought.

"Are you sure?" I asked, just to make certain.

"Let me take a peek," Harold responded, moving back to stand where I had been. After a beat, he affirmed, "That's the one, chickpea! I hope that demonic little gnome doesn't frighten him off."

The other girls created a curtain-like ring with their skirts, and Harold and I descended behind it to change costumes. As I struggled into the next dress, my mind was running over questions. "Will he invest?"

"After spending the night with you," Harold enthused, "how can he refuse?"

"What's his type?" I paused, combing my fingers through my hair and checking my appearance in the mirror that had been offered.

"Wilting flower?" I asked, putting on my best downcast look. Then, feigning cheerfulness, I suggested, "Bright and bubbly?"

A suggestive growl punctuated the final option: "Or smoldering temptress?"

"I'd say – _smoldering temptress_." Harold paused, then added, "We're all relying on you, gosling. Remember, a real show, in a real theatre, with a real audience. And you'll be –"

"A real actress," I finished for him, momentarily sobered by the thought of it. Then the ring of dancers separated and Harold and I rose again to finish the number.

"_'Cause that's when those louses go back to their spouses!  
Diamonds . . . are a . . . girl's . . . best . . ._"

As I was carried over to where the Duke sat, Toulouse caught up to us and tried to get my attention – no doubt something about that English writer he was telling me about earlier – but I dropped in front of the Duke's seat and completed the number with a flourish.

"_. . . friend!_"

The Duke stared up at me, wide-eyed and gaping in surprise. I affixed him with a coquettish smile and a seductive look, my hands perched on my hips. "I believe you were expecting me?"

He remained silent for a horrifyingly long moment, before I realized his lack of words was simply that he couldn't quite manage to _form_ them.

"Yes," he finally gasped out. "Yes."

I extended a gloved hand out at him in a point, calling back over my shoulder to the crowd, "I'm afraid it's ladies choice!"

The Duke just stared at me further, so I began to pout, whimpering and waving the feathery train of my skirt about, the action igniting the crowd until they started cheering even more loudly.

Then Toulouse crowded in again, piping up, "I see you already met my English friend!"

"I'll take care of it, Toulouse!" I said, brushing him aside, then turned back to the Duke. "Let's dance!"

He still showed hesitation, so I prompted him out onto the floor, soon spinning out onto it myself, while he followed more slowly, seeming uncertain of himself.

The crowd of disappointed male patrons parted to allow us through, though they were quickly enough occupied by the other girls. My attention had gone fully to the Duke, who was indeed nothing like what I'd anticipated. He was innocent, almost shy, and I instantly saw I would have to take hold of the conversation.

"It's so wonderful of you to take an interest in our little show," I said cheerfully.

"Sounds very exciting," he responded enthusiastically, "I'd be delighted to be involved."

They were just the words I wanted to hear, but I didn't expect to hear them so _soon_.

"Really?" I asked, knowing I sounded surprised.

"Assuming you like what I do, of course," he amended.

I blinked, slightly taken aback, but offered a smile nonetheless, though my hands were raised in the air in a gesture that suggested confusion. "I'm – sure I will."

"Toulouse thought we might be able to do it in private," he went on casually.

I raised my eyebrows in question at the audacity – not only of the Duke, but the little Bohemian artist as well. "Did he?"

"Yes, you know, a private . . ." He paused, and sputtered out, ". . . poetry reading."

Despite confusion, I took his words as a polite – he _was_ an aristocrat, after all – way of alluding to what we were _really_ going to do, and decided to take the train of thought and run with it. After all, everything depended largely on what he wanted.

"Oh, mm, a poetry reading?" I asked knowingly. "I do love a little poetry after supper."

By then, the song was ending, and I warned him to hang onto his hat, before promptly kicking my leg upward – an action that, performed by the other girls, caused the top hat of nearly every male patron in the place to go flying into the air.

The crowd cheered, and I leaned in to give the Duke instructions to meet me in the Red Room, then I turned and moved back through the throng to retake my seat on the trapeze. Moments later, the familiar notes of my song filled the air again.

"_Square cut or pear shaped,  
These rocks don't lose their shape!  
Diamonds . . . are a girl's . . . best . . ._"

I paused, drawing in a breath to hit the final note – but it hitched in my chest, and I tilted my head back to gasp for air, before the next thing I knew, everything was descending into black.


	4. The Great Sarah

  
  


**Chapter Four**  
_The Great Sarah_

  
  


I awoke in a daze of disorientation, taking a moment to stir and flutter my eyelashes. When I finally opened my eyes, I was met by the sight of Marie and several of the other girls hovering over me, their faces reflecting worry. I took a moment to draw in a few deep breaths, then laughed at the absurdity of having passed out.

It wasn't uncommon for the stays of the corsets to become too tight, but I had never been faint of heart like a lot of the others, and I attributed it logically to the fact it must have been the exertion of performing, combined with nerves.

"Oh, these silly costumes."

"All right, you girls, let's get back out there and make these gents thirsty," the stage manager called to the others as he hurried over to where we were.

"Problems?" he asked Marie, glancing between us.

"Nothing for you to be worried about," she responded bluntly.

"Let's not stand around, then," he said, then bustled away.

Anything that might have been said afterward was unknown to me, as I felt a dry itching in my throat, and turned to cough into a handkerchief Marie held for me. Recovering, I looked back up at the ceiling, before sitting up. I had a client to meet, after all, so there really was no use sitting around.

Marie helped me to change out of my costume from the number, and I slipped a long red dress over my head, watching the crimson skirt fall about me in a waterfall of silk. Marie moved to lace it up, while I tugged on a pair of black satin gloves, and began to fix my makeup, lightly dusting on more rouge to hide the slight pallor I'd taken on following my brief fainting spell.

"That twinkle-toes Duke has really taken the bait, girl," she said, yanking hard on the strings of the laces, prompting me to gasp with the effort of having the corset laced so tightly. "With a patron like him, you'll be the next Sarah Bernhardt."

My next gasp was not from the tightening of the dress, however, but more from the suggestion that I could compare to the actress whom I idolized. I knew not when I had come to admire Sarah Bernhardt so much, only that she was everything I aspired to be – a famous actress.

I glanced at the black and white photograph of her that was tucked into a corner of my mirror, asking in almost scandalized surprise, "Do you really think so, Marie? I'd do anything if I could be like the great Sarah."

"Well, why not?" she asked, as if such an idea was not far from reality. "You have the talent. You hook that Duke and you'll be lining up the great stages of Europe."

"I'm going to be a real actress, Marie," I stated, resolutely – and yet at the same time, with a tone of wonder. "A great actress. And I'm going to fly away from here."

I turned to the little bird that chirped away in its cage alongside my dressing table. "Oh, yes, we're going to fly, fly away from here."

Harold came running backstage a second later, asking, "Duckling, is everything all right?"

I turned around to face him, brushing off the concern much in the way I always had. My mood had lightened considerably from earlier, and I responded in a tone of confident reassurance, "Oh, yes, of course, Harold."

"Oh, thank goodness," he said, sounding relieved, and moved on to the topic more closely at hand – and to him, no doubt, that was really more important.

"You certainly wove your magic with that Duke on the dance floor."

I smiled and posed dramatically, a hand behind my head. "How do I look? _Smoldering temptress_?"

"Oh, my little strawberry!" Harold exclaimed. "How can he resist from gobbling you up?"

We indulged in an admittedly childish dance with each other – though we were, by then, far too enthusiastic to care – and Harold went on to note, "Everything's going so well!"

And so it was, so straight off to the elephant I went.


	5. A Private Poetry Reading

  
  


**Chapter Five**  
_A Private Poetry Reading_

  
  
Minutes later, I greeted the Duke at the door of the Red Room, and ushered him inside, before I retreated behind a screen to change. When I emerged, clad in black lingerie, I made certain every sway of my hips had meaning. "This is a wonderful place for a poetry reading, don't you think?"

He turned from his observation out the heart-shaped window at the front of the elephant, and gaped at me for a moment.

"Poetic enough for you?" I inquired in a seductive purr, smoothing my hands down the front of the negligee.

"Y-yes," he stammered out, with what I could only presume to be nervousness.

I politely ignored the anxiety that was radiating off him, and sashayed past to the dinner tray. "Would you like a little supper?" I reached to pluck the bottle from its place nestled in the ice bucket, "Maybe some . . . champagne?"

"I'd rather just, um . . . get it over and done with," he blurted out.

I dropped the bottle back down into the bucket with a thump, and pushed down my annoyance. His impatience, I attributed to youth – the younger men were always in a hurry, especially when I had the act going fully. _Why_ Harold had suggested the smoldering temptress guise would work best in this situation was beyond me – the Duke seemed much more the bright and bubbly type.

"Oh," I stated shortly, turning back around to look at him. "Very well, then."

I moved over to the bed and settled down onto it, a come-hither look on my face.

"Why don't you come down here, and let's –" I patted the space beside me suggestively, "– get it over and done with?"

He looked at me for a moment – gaping again – and replied, ". . . Actually, I'd prefer to do it standing."

I blinked, eyes widening slightly.

"Oh," I said, and started to slide to the foot of the bed.

"Y-you don't have to stand, I mean," he interrupted hastily, noting my motion to rise. "Sometimes it's . . . quite long, and I-I'd like you to be comfortable. It's quite modern, what I do, and it may feel a little strange at first – but . . . but I think if you're open, then you might enjoy it."

Now it was my turn to gape at him, a little surprised. Few of the men I dealt with managed to surprise me, but this one was succeeding steadily, and I have to admit to being taken aback.

It really _was_ always the quiet ones.

Recovering, I responded enthusiastically, "I'm sure I will."

"Excuse me," he said, then unexpectedly turned away, pacing back and forth a bit before lifting his hat in the air and stating, "The sky – the sky is –"

I leaned back on the bed in anticipation, and emitted an expectant moan.

"– is, ugh . . . blue – birds . . . _ooh_." He glanced back, then hastily turned away again, muttering to himself, before spinning back around. "I think the mountains are . . . shaking."

I sat up and leaned forward with an expression of impatient question, brows furrowing. "Um . . . is everything all right?"

"I'm just a little nervous," he stammered out. "It's just that sometimes it . . . takes a little while for, uh –"

"_Ooh_," I responded in realization, offering him a sympathetic look. I pushed myself up off the bed and walked toward him as he finished the sentence.

"For, you know," he concluded, glancing at the floor. ". . . _inspiration_ to come."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," I purred in return as he looked up at me again. "Let mommy help."

Then, with little ceremony, I reached down between his legs and forcefully took hold of his 'talent.' He gave a strangled gasp, staring at me with wide eyes.

"Does _that_ inspire you?" I whispered, but gave him little time to respond, instead pulling him forward and directing him toward the bed.

"Let's make love!" I cried out, and in show of my suggestion, soon followed, straddling him and starting about the work of unbuttoning his shirt.

"Make love?" he repeated, looking up at me in confusion – almost as if that _wasn't_ what he had expected to do.

It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he was a virgin – that would at least explain part of his odd behavior.

"You want to, don't you?" I asked, though his response wasn't really of much concern, as I continued unfastening buttons, untying his bowtie even as he squirmed around as if looking to escape.

"Well, I-I came to –" he stated, but I put a hand over his mouth, pulling the hem of his shirt untucked with my free hand.

"Tell the truth," I insisted. "Feel the poetry!"

I kept at my work on his clothing, going on, "Come on, feel it, free the tiger!"

I growled, reaching the clasp on his trousers, and hastily unfastened them. What I found caused me to focus wide-eyed for a moment on him. "Oh, big boy! _Yes_, I need your poetry _now_!"

"All right!" he cried.

Then, rather unexpectedly, he struggled out from under me and off the bed, scrambling several feet away before turning back.

"It's a little bit funny –" he stated, and I stared at him in exasperation.

"What?" I questioned, confused. I'd never had _anyone_ do this before.

"This f-feeling – in-inside," he continued, as if explaining – though it didn't make any more sense. "I'm not one of those who can – who can easily hide."

He hesitated, and asked, "I-is this okay, is this what you want?"

I continued to stare, before realizing what he was doing. It finally occurred, in a burst of epiphany, that maybe he had been _serious_ about a poetry reading. Maybe this was his idea of foreplay – certainly unusual, but it wouldn't be the most unusual.

"Oh, _poetry_," I responded, leaning backward again. "Yes, yes, this is what I want! Naughty words!"

"I-I don't have much money," he went on. "But if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live."

"Oh, yes, _yes_," I breathed, sliding off the bed and slinking across the floor, feigning arousal at his words – which weren't necessarily bad, but it wasn't exactly what I had expected. And I couldn't help but be a little offended at the fact it was what _he_ wanted.

"If I were a sculptor, but then again, no . . ."

"No, no, no!" I cried out, then realized he had trailed off, so I looked up and waved at him to go on. "No, no, don't stop!"

"Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show," he continued, somewhat uncertainly.

I rolled up in a furred blanket on the floor, gasping out, "Give me more! Yes! _Yes_!"

"I know it's not much, but . . ."

I continued to roll around, shouting in the throes of mock (though he didn't need to know that) ecstasy, "_Naughty_! Don't stop! Yes, yes, _yes_!"

"_My gift is my song!_"

As the voice – _his_ voice, I realized with a hint of awe – rang out, I abruptly halted, sitting up to look at him in stunned silence.

"_. . . and this one's for you_," he concluded with a smile. I stared at him, the nearly forgotten blanket sliding down around my shoulders.

"_And you can tell everybody that this is your song.  
It may be quite simple, but now that it's done,  
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind  
That I put down in words . . ._"

I smiled in spite of myself, spellbound as he sang.

"_. . . how wonderful life is, now you're in the world._"

Rising, I allowed the blanket to settle to the floor, and I walked toward him, watching enraptured as he turned and glanced out the window.

"_Sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss.  
Some of these verses, well they – they got me quite cross.  
But the sun's been kind while I wrote this song.  
It's the people like you that keep it turned on._"

I glanced away then, my smile turning almost – embarrassed? It was such a distant experience that I'd almost forgotten what it felt like, as modesty was easily something set aside in my 'profession' – and I moved to look out the window as well.

"_So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do,  
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue . . .  
But anyway the thing is, what I really mean.  
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen!_"

He smiled, reaching to take my hands in his, then he wrapped an arm around my waist and swept me into a twirling waltz around the main floor of the room – though we may as well have been dancing on the clouds, as light as I felt on my feet.

"_And you can tell everybody this is your song.  
It may be quite simple, but now that it's done,  
Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,  
That I put down in words . . .  
How wonderful life is now you're in the world._

Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind  
That I put down in words . . .  
How wonderful life is . . . now you're in the world!"

The Duke dipped me in his embrace, our faces hovering mere inches from each other. I leaned toward him, staring in to the lovely blue of his eyes, something foreign blossoming in me.

"I can't believe it," I said slowly, in a tone of wonder that surprised even myself, "I'm in love . . ."

And as I spoke the words, I found myself wondering if they were really those that I always repeated to the men I sold myself to – hollow, empty, and without real meaning – after all.

"I'm in love with a young, handsome, talented Duke," I finished, almost laughing at the idea.

He paused, brows knitting in good-natured bemusement as he gazed back at me. "Duke?"

At his uncertain echo, I added, "Oh . . . not that the title's important, of course."

His expression was almost amused as he informed me, "I'm not a Duke."

Confused, I searched his face just short of our lips meeting in a kiss. "Not a Duke?"

"I'm a writer," he corrected.

"A _writer_?" I questioned, horrified, and pushed away from him instantly. With two little words, everything instantly came crashing down – this wasn't some fairytale after all. I wasn't Cinderella, the glass slipper was really made out of wood, and my Prince – was a _writer_.

"Yes, a writer," he responded, obviously confused as to why it should matter so much.

"No!" I gasped out, taking a step back.

"Well, Toulouse –" he started, but I cut him off as horrified realization came over me.

"_Toulouse_? Oh no! Not another of Toulouse's oh-so-talented, charmingly Bohemian, tragically impoverished protégés?" I asked, willing him to deny any knowledge of the diminutive Bohemian man.

To my disappointment, he simply seemed mildly embarrassed, shoulders lifting in a mild shrug as he responded, "Well, you might say that."

"_Oh no_!" I cried. "I'm going to kill him! I'm going to _kill_ him!"

"Toulouse told me –" he tried again, but I was all ready on my way to the door, intent on making him leave.

"The Duke," I stated, remembering the one I was _really_ supposed to be meeting, becoming instantly more horrified by the second. I swung the door open – only to slam it shut again and brace myself back against it, eyes wide in shock. "_The Duke_!"

"The Duke?" he asked, obviously confused by my upset – which only upset me further, as there was no time to explain.

"Hide!" I commanded, attempting to figure out _where_ there possibly was for him to go. "Out the back!"

I spun around hastily as the door opened and Harold entered, aware of the fact the writer – without the time to properly escape – had ducked down behind me.

"My dear, are you decent for the Duke?" Harold asked. "Where were you?"

"I – was – waiting," I said slowly, moving quickly over to the dinner tray from earlier, bracing myself against it and giving the writer time to use it as a hiding place.

"Dearest Duke," Harold was continuing with a flourish, "Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Satine."

The Duke stepped into the room – and for the first time, I faced the actual financier, who, unfortunately, was a poor substitute for the writer. The real Duke came far closer to my expectations than the man I'd initially mistaken for him, with features that were far less attractive as well. He seemed absorbed with himself, and as he stepped over to me and gave a smile that caused his mustache to twitch upward, I was reminded of some sort of rodent.

"Monsieur," I purred smoothly, as if nothing were amiss, "How wonderful of you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit."

"The pleasure I fear will be entirely mine, my dear," he responded – and his voice, slick as a serpent's, certainly fit his look.

"I'll leave you two squirrels to get acquainted," Harold said enthusiastically. "Ta-ta!"

The door closed behind him with a slam, and I was alone with the Duke – though not _so_ alone.

The Duke took my hand, and stooped to kiss it, repeating a line from the show, "A kiss on the hand may be quite continental."

I pulled my hand back, waving a finger at him in a chiding gesture. "But diamonds are a girl's best friend."

I took his hat and cane, tossing them aside, then sank back onto the bed, eager to distract him from the tray next to which the writer was hiding. Unfortunately, he headed right in that direction, eyeing the contents.

"After tonight's pretty exertions on the stage, you must surely be in need of some refreshment, my dear," he noted, reaching for the champagne bottle.

I jumped up abruptly, leaning one hand out as I screeched, "Don't!"

Recovering and realizing my mistake, I went on hastily, "Don't . . . you . . . just – love the view?"

I stretched my arm out in indication of the heart-shaped window, prompting him to move toward it and look out at the view in question.

He remained rooted in place, however, merely glancing to it before responding in a dry tone, "Charming."

Frantically searching my mind, I instead began to dance around the floor, swishing my lace negligee through the air.

"Oh! I feel like dancing!" I cried out, while flitting about. It might have looked absurd, but I was certain it was distracting as well, and that was my main concern – it occurred to me in retrospect to wonder why I was trying to protect that writer, though I soon attributed it to the fact _I_ didn't wish to be suspected of entertaining another when I was supposed to be attending the Duke.

"Don't you feel like dancing?" I asked, turning back toward him.

"My dear, I should like a glass of champagne –" he started, reaching toward the ice bucket on the tray.

"_No_!" I interrupted shrilly again, then I grabbed the first thing that sprang to mind. "It's a little bit funny!"

The Duke looked at me in confusion, glancing from left to right before focusing on me again. "What is?"

"This . . ." I allowed my gaze to trail sidelong to the tray, where the writer had poked his head up in order to supply the words to his own poem, and I took a moment to decipher what he was mouthing silently.

". . . feeling," I finished.

"Inside. I'm not one of those who can easily . . ." I hesitated again, attempting to make out the pantomime. ". . . hide!"

The Duke had turned toward the tray again, but I interjected another, "No!" and sprang forward, wrapping my arms around his legs.

"I don't have much money," I cried, "But ooh, if I did . . . I'd buy a big house where we both could live!"

I ran my hands up and down his legs for a moment, before pulling them apart to look at the writer, gesturing urgently for him to make his way to the door while I had the Duke distracted. Then I looked back up at the Duke and rose, beginning to sing.

"_I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind  
That I put down in words . . .  
How wonderful life is . . ._"

I paused, glancing over his shoulder toward the writer.

"_. . . now you're in the world._"

"That's very beautiful," the Duke breathed, obviously impressed.

I reached a hand over his shoulder, pointing the writer toward the door, then leaned back to look at the Duke more fully. "It's from _Spectacular Spectacular_. Suddenly, with you here, I finally knew the true meaning of those words. 'How wonderful life is now you're in the world.'"

It was a blatant lie, of course, but why not do a little good while attempting to throw him off?

"And what meaning is that, my dear?"

As I glanced again at the writer, who opened the door only to find a bald man standing in the hallway, waiting, I made it instantly certain this was apparently the wrong thing for the Duke to say, by flinging myself back onto the bed. I beat down the duvet as I mock sobbed into it.

"Duke, don't you toy with my emotions!" I accused, pointing at him, and went back to feigning crying. "You . . . you must know the effect you have on women!"

He was impressed, flattered, and as he walked over to me, I took the opportunity to grab him and pull him down onto the bed atop me.

"Let's make love!" I cried. "You want to make love, don't you? Oh, I knew you felt the same way! Oh, oh, Duke!"

He offered muffled protests into the velvet blankets, but I was too busy waving the writer toward the window to take heed of it.

But the writer had paused, and was looking at me with an expression that was almost _hurt_, and as the Duke was murmuring something along the lines of 'wait,' I paused and focused back on him, answering in agreement, "Yes, you're right, we should wait! We should wait, until opening night!"

He leaned up, seeming grateful for the air, but gave me a befuddled look. "Wait – wait?"

"There's a power in you that scares me!" I cried. "You should go!"

Then I had him up and was ushering him to the door. "You must go!"

"Go?" he asked. "I just got here –"

But I had the door open and was pushing him out of it. "Oh, yes, but we'll see each other every day during rehearsal – we must wait, we must wait until opening night. Get out."

I swung the door shut behind him and turned back to the writer, who had emerged back behind me.

"Do you have any idea, _any idea_, what would happen if you were to be found?" I demanded, walking back toward him, but the same lightheadedness I had experienced just before falling from the trapeze came over me again, and I slumped forward – right into his arms.


	6. Rude Awakenings

**Chapter Six**  
_Rude Awakenings_

  
  
When I gradually came to from the fainting spell, I was instantly confused – at the fact I was lying on the bed, and that the equally confused-looking writer was looming over me. I blinked a bit and attempted to force back the lingering dizziness, and realized the writer was looking not at me – but at someone else entirely. I turned to look at the doorway just in time to see the Duke standing there, and I drew in a deep breath, attempting to catch up on the situation from what I could gather on assumption.

"Oh, Duke . . ."

But he had a jealous glint in his eye as he strode forward. "'It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside'?"

"Beautifully spoken, Duke," I complimented, then took hold of the writer's face and turned his head toward the Duke. "Yes, let me introduce you to the writer . . ."

"The writer?" he demanded, stiffening.

By then I realized what must have happened – the writer must have caught me and laid me on the bed (though _how_ he ended up atop me, I wasn't certain), and the Duke walked in at exactly the wrong moment.

"Yes, we were – we were rehearsing," I elaborated falsely.

He wasn't to be convinced so easily, however. "Oh, ho, ho, ho . . . you expect me to believe that scantily-clad, in the arms of another man, in the middle of the night, inside an elephant, you were _rehearsing_?"

The writer and I untangled ourselves from each other and got to our feet, and I waved a hand through the air, reaching for an explanation – when Toulouse and the other Children of the Revolution came crowding in through the opening at the front of the elephant. I wondered less about how they had gotten there, conveniently forgot the fact I was going to kill Toulouse earlier, and concentrated more on appreciation that they had shown up.

"How's the rehearsal going?" Toulouse called out, waving his cane at the writer and myself. "Shall we take it from the top, eh, my queen?"

Relieved by this sudden and unexpected rescue, I turned back to the Duke, summoning my most convincing expression. "When I spoke those words to you before, I filled me with such inspiration –"

He met me with a skeptical look, but I pressed on, "Yes, I realized how much work we had to do before tomorrow, so I called everyone together for an – emergency rehearsal."

I was pleased with myself, but further concerned as he questioned, "If you're rehearsing, where's Zidler?"

I gave an offhanded wave, attempting carelessness. "Oh, no, we didn't bother Harold –"

Then, at precisely the wrong moment, the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang, and Harold rushed into the room, apologizing profusely to the Duke – no doubt for the sudden arrival of the Bohemians. "My dear Duke, I'm most terribly sorry –"

"Harold! You made it!" I called out, eager to interrupt him before the Duke could ask any more questions. "It's quite all right," I added forcefully, "The Duke knows all about the _emergency rehearsal_."

"Emergency rehearsal?" he asked, not quite picking up on what I was trying to do.

"Mmhm . . . to incorporate the Duke's artistic ideas," I elaborated slowly, as if reminding him.

"Yes, well, I'm sure Audrey will be only too delighted –"

"– Audrey's left!" Toulouse interrupted, and causing me to wonder if this could _get_ any worse.

Quick to recover, I interjected, "Harold, the cat's out of the bag. The Duke's already a big fan of our new writer's work. That's why he's so keen to _invest_."

I drew out the last word with some emphasis, because after all, if there was anything that would inspire Harold, it was money.

"Invest?" he repeated. "Invest! Oh, yes, well, invest! You can hardly blame me for trying to hide our young –" he hesitated, waiting for a name.

"Christian," Toulouse provided.

"– Christian away."

So that was his name. I paused, looking at the Duke as he spoke up again. "I'm way ahead of you, Zidler," he said smugly, looking rather proud of himself.

"My dear Duke, why don't you and I go to my office to peruse the paperwork, mm?" Harold prompted, making a motion to lead him from the room.

But the Duke halted him, asking, "What's the story?"

Harold froze, looking confused. "The story?" he echoed.

"Well, if I'm going to invest," the Duke went on, "I need to know the story."

"Oh, yes, well," Harold stated. "The story's about . . ." He trailed off, then questioned, "Toulouse?"

All eyes turned to the littlest Bohemian, and he froze, stammering, "The story's about – the story's about – it's about, um . . ."

I was just about to suggest something of my own, when the writer – Christian – finished for him, "Love! It's about love!"

"Love?" the Duke asked with a sneer.

I was becoming increasingly more skeptical of this writer, despite the talent he had displayed, but he went on, "It's about love . . . overcoming all obstacles."

"And it's set in Switzerland!" Toulouse offered enthusiastically.

"Exotic Switzerland!" Harold added, as the words 'exotic' and 'Switzerland' didn't quite seem to belong together.

The Duke didn't appear all too enthusiastic over the idea of romances between goat-herders and milkmaids, either, so the writer corrected hastily, "India! India! It's set in India."

Hesitating, the writer turned toward me, then went on, "And there's a courtesan – the most beautiful courtesan in all the world . . ." Then he pivoted on a heel to face the Duke. "But her kingdom's invaded by an _evil_ maharajah."

The Duke recoiled a bit, but the writer continued weaving his tale expertly, "Now, in order to save her kingdom, she has to seduce the evil maharajah . . . but on the night of the seduction, she mistakes a penniless –"

Pausing, he self-consciously began to point to himself and say 'writer,' but obviously thought better of it, searching the room for something else. Grabbing a sitar that was lying in the corner, he held it up and finished, "– a penniless sitar player for the evil maharajah, and falls in love with him!"

Looking back to me, he concluded earnestly, "He – he wasn't trying to trick her or anything, but he was dressed as a maharajah, because . . . he's appearing in a play."

"And _I_ will play the penniless, tango-dancing sitar player," the Argentinean interrupted suddenly, stepping forward and grabbing the stringed instrument from Christian's hand. He strummed a single, sour note, and elaborated, "Who sings like an angel, but dances – like the devil!"

Everyone was caught up in the story by now, including myself – but it was the Duke who finally asked, "And – and what happens next?"

"Well, the penniless sitar player and the courtesan, they have to hide their love from the evil maharajah," Christian went on, emphasizing 'evil' at every chance presented him.

On cue, I turned my back to the Argentinean, looking at him over my shoulder, as if having to steal a glance.

Then Satie piped in, gesturing at the wooden sitar the Argentinean held. "The sitar player's sitar is magical," he offered. "It can only speak the truth!"

"And I will play the magical sitar!" Toulouse jumped into the half-circle we'd created around the Duke, taking the sitar from the Argentinean and plucking out an off-key note, giving a suggestion of what the magical instrument might say.

"You are beautiful," he said to me, then strummed another note and turned to Harold, noting bluntly, "And you are ugly."

Then he turned to the Duke, and we all lunged forward to cover his mouth.

"And he gives the game away," the Duke suggested, prompting positive applause from everyone.

"Tell them about the can-can," Harold told Christian.

"The – the . . . tantric can-can!" the writer improvised, only to be shoved aside as Harold took center stage again.

"It's an erotic spectacular scene that captures the thrusting, violent, vibrant, wild Bohemian spirit that this entire production embodies, Duke," Harold informed him.

"And what do you mean by that?" the Duke asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"The show will be a magnificent, opulent, tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan bedazzlement," Harold went on, quite possibly drawing out every large word he could think of to describe it. "A sensual ravagement. It will be . . . spectacular, spectacular, no words in the vernacular can describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment. Returns are fixed at ten percent. You must agree, that's excellent."

He paused, then began to sing.

"_And on top of your fee . . . you'll be involved artistically._"

The next few moments passed in a whirlwind as we all joined together in the song and worked to pitch the show to the Duke, who looked a little lost through it all. When he interrupted our grand number to ask how it would end, we all scattered about the room, grabbing props left and right, until a curtain had been dropped between us and where the Duke sat.

The writer stepped out in front of the curtain, narrating as we acted it out. "_The courtesan and sitar man are pulled apart by an evil plan . . ._"

"_But in the end she hears his song_," I provided.

"_. . . and their love is just too strong_," he finished, giving me a knowing look.

The moment, however, was interrupted as the Duke joined in with an off-key rendition of the song Christian had just earlier serenaded me with. "_It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside . . ._"

We all stared at him in a moment of silence, not quite certain how to reply – but then our routine started up again, and continued until we gave a grand conclusion.

The Duke simply blinked at us, looking a little lost, before finally stating to overall delight, "Generally, I like it."


	7. From Dream to Dream

  
  


**Chapter Seven**  
_From Dream to Dream_

  
  
After everyone had left the elephant – Harold and the Duke back to his office to draw up the paperwork, the Bohemians back to Toulouse's studio for a celebration party, and the writer gone with them – I sat at my dressing table, trying to sort through my thoughts. Everything seemed to be going so well, even better than it had been planned or hoped for. Harold had his investor, the Children of the Revolution had a show, and I would fulfill my dream of acting.

I should have felt ecstatic, but instead I was confused – confused over my feelings, confused over that writer . . .

Christian.

His words kept filling my head.

_Duke? I'm not a Duke. I'm a writer . . . He wasn't trying to trick her or anything . . . It's about love! It's about love overcoming all obstacles . . ._

Why should I be thinking about him at all? He wasn't important to me – the one I really had to concentrate my affections on was the Duke. He was the one that mattered in this scheme, but I couldn't get my mind off Christian. There was something different about him, something new. He was innocent, naïve . . . he was everything contrary to what Montmartre embodied – contrary to everything I knew.

_I can't believe it . . . I'm in love . . ._

In such a village as had been termed a 'village of sin,' there were few rules. But the one I knew, the one I held above all else, was _don't fall in love_. And now, it seemed to be the one I was in risk of breaking. But it was nonsense, I told myself – I wasn't in love with this writer. I didn't even feel myself _capable_ of being in love.

I was infatuated, I decided. I was impressed by his talent . . . by his words . . .

_My gift is my song and this one's for you . . ._

Standing, I walked toward the window and peered outside, out over the garden the elephant rested in, past the turning sails of the red windmill. There across the way, I could see the building where the Bohemians lived, where distant sounds of revelry met my ears. Then, there in the window, I could have sworn I saw _him_, standing there – looking right back at me.

Shaking my head, I pushed back the thoughts, and began to sing to myself.

"_I follow the night . . . can't stand the light.  
When will I begin to live again?  
One day I'll fly away,  
Leave all this to yesterday . . ._"

I sighed softly, turning back to look at the window from which the light shone, then asked – almost as if singing directly to him,

"_What more could your love do for me?  
When will love be through with me?  
Why live life from dream to dream,  
And dread the day when dreaming ends?_"

I looked away, and when I glanced back, the figure was gone. Turning, I ascended the stairs that led to the top of the elephant, then on that perch – where I felt close enough to the sky, the wind fluttering my skirt, where I felt as if I truly were flying – I went on.

"_One day I'll fly away!  
Leave all this to yesterday.  
Why live life from dream to dream,  
And dread the day when dreaming ends?_"

I moved back to settle myself on the canopied seat, wrapping my arms around my knees.

"_One day I'll fly away . . .  
Fly, fly . . . away . . ._"

I trailed off, only to be interrupted anyway as a noise sounded behind me. I jumped back to my feet with a startled gasp, and looked back to see – the writer, standing there at the back of the elephant.

"S-sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized hastily, hanging onto one of the poles that held up the canopy. "I didn't mean . . . I saw – I saw your light on, and . . . I climbed up the . . ."

I stared at him, realizing he must have climbed up the back of the elephant to get there, and gasped out an incredulous question. "What?"

"I couldn't sleep," he explained, "And I – I wanted to thank you . . . for helping me get the job."

I nodded in response, suddenly relieved – and yet at the same time, disappointed, which confused me – that he was only here to thank me, but even though he seemed the type to be polite enough to go out of his way to do such a thing, I had to wonder why he would actually climb up here to do something that could easily wait until tomorrow.

"Oh, of course," I responded. "Yes, Toulouse . . . Toulouse was right. You're very talented. It's going to be a wonderful show," I added, then was struck by the absurdity of making small talk while standing on top of the elephant.

I hesitated, then gathered up the hem of my skirt and turned to leave. "Anyway, I – I'd better go, because we – we both have a big day tomorrow."

"Wait," he called out to stop me. "No, please wait."

He hesitated, and I knew what he was preparing to ask. My heart sank in dreaded anticipation, but I turned back to look at him anyway, doing my best to look impartial. I knew this was something we would have to get past in order to work on the show together, so there was no putting it off any longer. Attraction always gets in the way, particularly if it's one sided.

And it _was_ only one-sided, wasn't it?

"Before, when we were – when we . . ." He trailed off, seeming frustrated, then drew in a breath and pressed on again, "When you thought I was the Duke, you – said that you loved me, and . . . and I – I wondered if . . ."

I cut him off, finishing, "And you wondered if it was just an act?"

I nodded affirmatively, though I wasn't as convinced as I must have appeared. "Of course."

His shoulders slumped in dejection, and my heart sank further. He glanced downcast at the ground, then offered lamely, "Oh . . . it just – felt real."

"Christian," I said softly, turning to gaze at him in earnest, trying my best to explain my own situation to him. "I'm a courtesan. I'm paid to make men believe what they want to believe."

I was apologetic, perhaps even ashamed, and I didn't know why. Why should I be ashamed of what I did for a living? Life was harsh, and I did what I had to in order to survive.

_A life like this isn't living at all_, a voice stated somewhere in the back of my mind, but I pushed it aside.

"Yes . . . silly of me, to think that you could fall in love with someone like me," he said, hanging his head again.

"I can't fall in love with anyone," I said flatly, as if that would soften the blow.

"Can't fall in love?" He looked back up at me in surprise, sounding appalled. "But a life without love, that's terrible!"

"No," I argued. "Being on the streets – that's terrible."

"No!" he countered again, and I stared at him in indignation. "Love . . . is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong."

He paused, then insisted stubbornly, "All you need is love!"

I gave a silent sigh of frustration, pleading, "Please, don't start that again."

But he wasn't deterred, and instead went on, singing, "_All you need is love!_"

"A girl has got to eat," I said matter-of-factly.

"_All you need is love!_" he interrupted again.

"– or she'll end up on the streets!" I went on, trying to make him stop. And yet, I was somehow irresistibly drawn . . .

"_All you need is love!_" came his firm insistence once more.

"_Love is just a game_," I parried, finally drawn in by the bait.

"_I was made for lovin' you, baby, and you were made for lovin' me_," he sang brightly.

"_The only way of lovin' me, baby, is to pay a lovely fee_," I responded curtly, turning with a flip of my hair back over my shoulder.

"_Just one night, gimme just one night_," he implored.

It was, naturally, an argument I had heard before, and I replied easily, "_There's no way, 'cause you can't pay_."

"_In the name of love, one night in the name of love!_" he went on, unabashed by my refusal.

I was unable to help laughing softly at his resolution. "_You crazy fool_," I chided, "_I won't give in to you_."

With that, I made as if to leave, but heard him call out, "_Don't . . . leave me this way. I can't survive without your sweet love . . . oh, baby, don't leave me this way_."

I turned my back on him and looked out over Montmartre from my vantage point, noting in a soft tone, "_You'd think that people would've had enough of silly love songs . . ._"

"_I look around me and I see it isn't so_," he responded earnestly, "_Oh, no_."

"_Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs_," I sang with a long-suffering tone.

"_Well, what's wrong with that?_" he questioned, "_I'd like to know, 'cause here I go again!_"

I gave a horrified shriek as he jumped up onto the head of the elephant, precariously balanced as his held his arms out in the air, singing, "_Love lifts us up where we belong . . ._"

"Get down, get down!" I called, trying to grab one of his hands.

"_Where eagles fly, on a mountain high_," he went on, and I finally succeeded in taking him by the forearm and pulling him back down. In my opinion, his actions only made my argument stronger.

"_Love makes us act like we are fools_," I sang in a tone of disapproval, "_Throw our lives away for one happy day_."

"_We can be heroes! Just for one day_," he suggested.

"_You . . . you will be mean_," I accused, and began to walk back down the stairs.

He followed me, arguing back, "_No, no, I won't_."

"_And I –_" I found the first thing that sprang to mind, and threw my hands up into the air as I finished, "_I'll drink all the time_."

"_We should be lovers!_" he rang out.

"_We can't do that_," I returned, immediately shooting down the idea as I retreated back into the Red Room.

But he followed again, and sang firmly, without giving me a chance to state otherwise, "_We should be lovers, and that's a fact_."

"_Though nothing would keep us together_," I warned.

"_We could steal time_," he answered, then our voices merged together.

"_Just for one day. We can be heroes, for ever and ever – we can be heroes for ever and ever! Just because I . . ._"

"_Will always love you_," Christian affirmed.

"_I . . . can't help loving you_," we sang together, and I went on alone, "_How wonderful life is . . ._"

His voice joined mine, and we finished, "_Now you're in the world_."

We leaned together for our first kiss, and I whispered wryly, "You're going to be bad for business, I can tell."

He smiled, then we kissed, and it seemed fireworks set off around us. I was in love, I marveled, and for that stolen time I was on top of the world.


	8. Stolen Time

  
  


**Chapter Eight**  
_Stolen Time_

  
  
The next day was like nothing I'd ever known. Everyone involved in _Spectacular Spectacular_ seemed to thrum with excited anticipation as Harold announced the conversion of the Moulin Rouge into a theatre, but I had to admit that my enthusiasm was not solely for the proceedings of the day.

Because I was in love. Christian loved me, and I loved him in return, and though the feeling was new and foreign to me, I reveled in it. Every glance we shared across the soon to be renovated dance hall was filled with sparks, and though my brightest smiles went to the Duke, the most genuine were for Christian alone.

We used every excuse we could just to be near each other. Every kiss sent shivers down my spine, and every touch made my skin tingle. Love was far from the horrible experience I had feared – it was not based off lust, not off mere physical attraction. He loved me for what I was, even though he knew I had a checkered past in comparison to his nearly spotless innocence. But that naïveté was only one of the many things I loved about Christian – in a dark place like Montmartre, he was a shining beacon of hope.

He had not only made me believe in love, but he had shown me that it would always find a way.

"We will have created the world's first completely modern, entirely electric, totally Bohemian, all-singing, all dancing, _stage spectacular_!" Harold announced to the gathered assembly of performers and technicians, and we all clapped enthusiastically – only to jump backward in shock as a wrecking ball slammed into the wall behind him.

Harold had to lean forward to avoid being hit, but was otherwise unfazed as he went on to cry, "The show must go on!"

As the crowd dispersed, Christian looked at me, then shot a glance toward the door. I gave the faintest of nods in response, but was distracted as the Duke came sauntering up.

"Well, my dear, it seems things are firmly underway for your rise to stardom," he said cheerfully – or at least as cheerfully as I believed he was capable of sounding – and I flashed him one of my famous smiles.

"And it is all thanks to you, dear Duke."

"I'm certain I shall be repaid in due time," he responded with a decidedly lecherous smile. "You see, I have arranged a lovely supper for us in the Gothic Tower tonight –"

"Oh, it sounds lovely," I said, "but –"

I reached around in my mind for an excuse – I couldn't say, _But Christian and I were looking to have some private time._

Fortunately, Christian came to my rescue and interrupted, "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Satine, but I just couldn't help but overhear – you aren't going to miss the important meeting tonight to . . . read over your lines, are you?"

I gave him a thankful look, then gestured to the Duke, doing my best to look torn. "Oh, but I simply _mustn't_ decline the Duke's generous offer for dinner," I said, sounding horrified at the idea.

"Nonsense, my dear," he chided with a wave of his hand. "We shall have dinner some other time. Line reading simply cannot commence without the presence of the lead actress!"

"Oh, Duke, you're simply too kind," I responded with a sweet smile, leaning up to kiss him in thanks.

I could feel Christian staring daggers at the Duke, but soon enough turned and strode off, while Christian went in the opposite direction.

We met beside the elephant, sharing in an eager kiss, then he took me by the hand and led the way back to his garret. I surveyed the inside of the little flat, smiling at the simplicity of it compared to nearly everything at the Moulin Rouge – though I kept a small room there besides the boudoir in the elephant, which was decorated quite simply as well.

"Careful," he said, guiding me around a ladder that was for some reason perched off to the side.

I glanced up, and quickly saw the reason for it being there – there was a sizeable hole in the ceiling, and I gave a rather undignified squeak as Toulouse's face appeared there in the opening.

Christian, however, seemed unfazed by this, and simply waved up at the diminutive Bohemian, greeting, "Hi, Toulouse."

"Hello, Christian," he called back, then looked at me, "Satine."

I laughed softly, glancing at Christian in question – how were we supposed to have any privacy like this?

Toulouse seemed to read my mind, however, and waved down nonchalantly. "Don't worry, we won't be bothering you. I bought a rug to go over the hole," he explained cheerfully.

Christian looked momentarily skeptical – perhaps wondering, as I did, how Toulouse planned to stop anyone from stepping on the rug and falling through the hole – but said nothing, instead smiling up at the Bohemian and offering a nod.

Soon enough, the light that was filtering down from up there was cut off as the rug in question was no doubt put in place, and I shot Christian a questioning look. "Do I want to know how that got there?"

"The Argentinean fell through my roof," Christian responded carelessly.

I stared, and he went on to elaborate, "Yesterday morning – that's how I ended up at the Moulin Rouge in the first place. They pulled me upstairs to read for _Spectacular Spectacular_, then Audrey quit – I don't think he liked me much," he admitted.

"Well," I said, drawing him toward me, "I like you just fine."

  
  
The next night was much the same – after our first ever rehearsal ended, we met Toulouse back in his studio, and the Bohemian prepared dinner while Christian wrote the play, and acted it out for us – his two biggest fans – as well.

I sat back in a chair, laughing as he dashed about the room, having somewhere along the way draped a fringed cloth around himself in a makeshift cloak, while he clutched a few leafs of paper in his hand. I thought he might've made quite a talented leading man if only he could get past his self-consciousness.

"'Tell me you don't love me!' Mad with jealousy, the evil maharajah forces the courtesan to make the penniless sitar player believe she doesn't love him," he informed us with a flourish.

Toulouse offered up words of encouragement to Christian, who – caught up in what he was doing – went on in an impression of the Argentinean's voice, "'Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!' says the penniless sitar player, throwing money at her feet and leaving the kingdom forever!"

Then he made as if to flee the kingdom himself, by lunging toward the window, but Toulouse and I both yelled out a fervent 'no!' and he simply jumped out onto the ledge, wandering around to come in through the adjacent window as I called out, "But a life without love – that's terrible!"

"Yes," he agreed, but went on, coming to sit on the arm of the chair I was in, "But the sitar player – the magical sitar –"

"That's my part, Christian!" Toulouse interrupted, hurrying over to us, "That – that's my part!"

Christian laughed, and recited, "'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return,'" and as he leaned in to kiss me, I couldn't help but agree.


	9. The Lovers are Discovered

  
  


**Chapter Nine**  
_The Lovers are Discovered_

  
  
The next several days progressed with the same pleasant routine – the Duke interrupted us on occasion, but it was all too easy for us to conduct our love affair right under his nose. Just as the story between the courtesan and her penniless sitar player progressed, we found similar excuses to spend every possible moment together we could – because what was, after all, more plausible than the lead actress being dedicated to learning her part through rigorous rehearsal?

For his part, the Duke was fairly tolerant of his attempts at getting me alone being thwarted by Christian's frequent interruptions – and as for myself, I was thankful for them. Even as I sat with the Duke, watching the others conduct the rehearsal of one of the more elaborate dance numbers, Christian came up behind us and knelt down alongside my chair.

"Mademoiselle Satine," he spoke up, "I haven't quite finished writing that new scene."

I turned and gave him a faintly questioning look.

"The . . . 'will the lovers be meeting in the sitar player's humble abode?' scene," he provided, "And I was wondering if I could work on it with you later tonight."

Realization dawning – as well as appreciation for Christian's cleverness – I lifted a brow, but the Duke was soon to protest.

"But my dear – I've arranged a magnificent supper for us in the Gothic Tower."

"Well, it's not important," Christian responded with melodramatic reluctance, his tone suggesting otherwise. "We – we could work on it tomorrow."

"How dare you," I scolded instantly. "It cannot wait until tomorrow. 'The lovers _will_ be meeting in the sitar player's humble abode' scene is the most important in the production! We'll work on it tonight until I am completely satisfied."

My tone left no room for refusal, and as the Duke attempted to put up another protest, I lifted a finger to silence him. "Dear Duke, excuse me."

Then I pivoted and walked off, moving backstage.

Christian, I knew, left in the opposite direction, but he met me up on the balcony, eagerly pulling me into his arms and leaning forward to kiss me as if we hadn't seen each other all day. We had, of course, but it still didn't affect our longing.

When we had to pause to draw breath, he leaned back and gave me a look of anticipation. "You'll come tonight?"

"Yes," I assured him with a faint laugh, then pulled back and gestured for him to leave before we were seen together.

He started to walk away, then paused again, asking, "What time?"

"Eight o'clock!" I repeated in exasperation, waving him away.

Christian moved toward the stairs, but turned back to offer me a grin, and I couldn't help but laugh at his appearance – he had my lipstick all over his face, but then that was no uncommon occurrence these days.

"Promise?" he asked.

"Yes!" I called. "Now, go!"

With a self-conscious smoothing of my hair, I watched him vanish – making sure he was actually going this time – then turned to leave as well, only to be startled by the disapproving face of Harold. My eyes widened and I unconsciously stepped backward, frozen by his expression.

"Are you mad?" he demanded. "The Duke holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. He's spending a fortune on you. He's given you a beautiful new dressing room – he wants to make you a star. And you're dallying with the writer!"

I feigned innocence, shaking my head carelessly. "Oh, Harold, don't be ridiculous –"

"I saw you together!" he shouted, abruptly ceasing my protest.

I shrank back and felt a nervous flutter in my stomach as everything began to come crashing down. It was almost as if I were a little girl again, being disciplined by the closest thing to a father figure I'd ever had.

"It – it's nothing," I stammered, lying unconvincingly. "It's just an infatuation . . . it's nothing."

"The infatuation will _end_," he said shortly. "Go to the boy, tell him it's over. The Duke is expecting you in the Tower at eight."

With those ominously final words, Harold turned and walked away, leaving me alone. I stared out into the distance, my heart feeling as if it had been broken. Christian was everything to me, but now Harold knew – and how long would it be before the Duke did, as well?

Everyone was relying on me, everyone needed me to carry through . . . I had to do it. They needed me. But Christian . . .

_If I should die this very moment, I wouldn't fear . . .  
For I've never known completeness like being here.  
Wrapped in the warmth of you, loving every breath of you . . ._

"_Why live life from dream to dream . . . and dread the day . . ._" I questioned myself bitterly, making the walk back to my dressing room that seemed to take ages.

_Still my heart this moment, or it might burst.  
Could we stay right here till the end of time,  
Till the earth stops turning?_

As I wound my way backstage, a coughing spell similar to all the others I'd been having over the past several weeks seized me suddenly, and I began to gasp for air, my body shaking violently with each wracking cough. I stared in shock at the blood on my hand, but had little time to consider it, as everything started to spin.

_Want to love you till the seas run dry.  
I've found the one I've waited for . . ._


	10. Jusqu’à la Fin du Temps

  
  


**Chapter Ten**  
_Jusqu'à la Fin du Temps_

  
  
I awoke all throughout that night in fleeting moments of consciousness, only to have Marie insist I go back to sleep. Each time, everything felt distant and hazy, and disconnected. At one point, I made out the silhouettes of Harold and Marie as they talked in low voices to a third figure – the doctor, I realized – and I supposed he had given me something to help me rest.

I vainly remembered my promise to have dinner with Christian, and the fact he would be waiting for me despite Harold's earlier demands. The passage of time was aware to me only when I'd awake to find the moon at a different point, until Marie finally pulled the shade against the coming sunrise.

My sleep was fitful, plagued by the knowledge of what had transpired earlier; that my love had been discovered; that Harold knew everything – and yet I had to wonder how anyone couldn't have seen it. Christian and I had thought ourselves to be careful, but through the amorous smiles and meaningful glances, anyone with good sense could easily guess what was going on between us.

And Harold demanded we end it all – that _I_ end it all. But could I do that? Christian's love was the most precious thing I'd ever had, and I was being asked to give it up. I knew he wouldn't understand, either. He was too naïve; he believed that love could overcome all obstacles.

But I realized, then, that rules were there for a reason – and there were consequences for breaking them.

  
  
When I finally felt well enough to be on my feet, Marie allowed me to get up, and I first moved unsteadily to the window to pull up the shade and let the sunlight and fresh air in, having found the room increasingly stuffy as the day progressed. Then when I went to get dressed, she refused to lace my corset, but instead insisted I wear something looser. I gave in easily, not feeling comfortable enough to breathe in a corset yet anyway, and donned a pink silk kimono.

The walk of only a block to Christian's garret left me out of breath, and while I stood in the hallway plagued by a wracking cough, the door swung open and I was left to look up with an abrupt gasp for air. Christian stood there in the doorway, his face painted with worry, and his eyes . . .

Though I loved everything about him, from his startlingly enchanting voice to his way with words, his eyes were unusual. His were eyes that I could drown myself in easily; at times, they could appear a verdant shade of green that would make even the most beautiful emerald pale in comparison, while at others they were the brilliant azure of the sky.

And on this evening, that sky was broken upon by the grey haze of clouds, the soulful depths of his eyes reflecting a sorrowful and betrayed look I hadn't seen since that night on the elephant when I tried to sway his proclamations of love with my own blunt refusals, and the pain there tore at my heart.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently, his question breaking upon the reverent silence of my study.

I blinked and glanced about, feeling for the first time awkward in his presence.

"Nothing," I responded with that careless reassurance that instantly found its way into my tone. I wanted nothing more than to simply stay here with him forever; to be in the warmth of his presence and content in the knowledge of our love, but instead I felt as if I had already done him wrong, because I knew with a dire weight on my very soul what I was about to have to do.

"Are you sure?" he prodded with a tender concern as he ushered me inside, closing the door with a soft click.

I was quick to offer further reassurance, and for a long moment afterward, he remained silent. I could only imagine what he had spent the entire night before doing. I knew he had waited for me, and in my mind I envisioned him pacing from the window to the table upon which our carefully prepared candlelit dinner would have been waiting, the passage of time marked with the burning of the tapers into short stubs of wax that the flame would gradually be drowned in.

Off to the side, fastidiously arranged beside that Underwood typewriter would be the latest pages of _Spectacular Spectacular_, ready for the reading he knew I would want to do. It was a privilege I held, reading the show as he wrote it, and though I at times offered suggestions, they came rarely, as in my eyes his writing was perfect creative genius.

"Where – where were you last night?" he finally asked hesitantly, as if afraid of what the answer might be, but his heart crying out in desperate need of the knowledge. He didn't touch me, but I knew he wanted to, as his hands lingered just short of wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into an embrace.

"I was sick," I responded, and I could hear the hoarse tone of my voice, prompting me to clear my throat. Such an excuse was not an act – but then, it never was when I was with him.

He was the one person I could be myself with – I was always Harold's sparrow, the Duke's Sparkling Diamond, but I was Christian's _love_. He saw past the makeup and the extravagant costumes, past the whimsical air, and through to my soul – and he loved me for me, despite all the things I had done.

He accepted the explanation – or seemed to try to, at least – and I sensed he was struggling desperately between his own doubt and the desire to trust me. Still his eyes searched mine for questions I couldn't readily answer, until finally I turned away from him and walked over to sink down on the side of the bed. I was still not feeling well, and everything resting upon my shoulders was only further encumbering.

"Are you all right now?" he asked, and the concern in his tone was genuine, but the words were half-hearted, for I knew as well as he did that my health was not the only thing on his mind.

"I'll be fine," I responded – _lied_ – and watched as Christian moved back and resumed his seat at the typewriter.

Unlike usual, few words passed between us – no jokes, no laughter, no affectionate words or playful touches. The atmosphere was somber, as if aware of my mood. The slow clacking of keys soon enough filled the air, but they were almost reluctant against the stillness, until they subsided completely and he pulled the sheet from the typewriter.

He hesitated, then asked again, "Where were you last night?"

I looked up from the handkerchief I'd been clutching, a slight frown on my face. "I told you . . . I was sick."

My words carried hesitation, and he rose from his seat, moving over to perch lightly on the bedside.

"You don't have to lie to me," he said, his voice softly prompting.

I knew he had allowed his imagination to wander – he thought that perhaps I had spent the night with the Duke, as had been originally intended by Harold, and with what I had to tell him, I didn't try to correct him or belay his fears. Perhaps it was best – or at least easier – that he should think that.

I remained silent for a long moment afterward, avoiding his gentle, trusting gaze, a look that pleaded for reassurance that I couldn't give. I steeled myself against my next words, and said softly, "We have to end it."

Christian stiffened, and I knew he was about to protest, but I pressed forward. I had to keep going before I lost the nerve.

"Everyone knows. Harold knows. Sooner or later, the Duke will find out."

The explanation held every bit of logic I could summon, and yet I couldn't force myself to be any more convinced by it than he was.

"On opening night," I continued slowly, "I have to sleep with the Duke . . . and the jealousy will drive you mad."

He rose abruptly in denial of the words, and moved out onto the ledge, circling around as I went to stand at the open doors. All the while he was speaking his thoughts aloud, searching for some way to work through what I saw as the inevitable.

"Then I'll write a song," he said earnestly, "And – and we'll put it in the show. And no matter how bad things get, or whatever happens, whenever you hear it, or when you sing it, or whistle it, or hum it – it will mean that we love one another."

He paused, finishing, "I won't get jealous, I promise."

I resisted, but I felt my resolve crumbling as he spoke, his words breaking my heart. He pressed his lips to my brow in light, fleeting kisses, but I took a deep breath and turned away, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Things don't work that way, Christian," I said sadly. "We have to end it."

I was resolute, but then he began to sing – his words soft, but backed by the intensity of passion and love.

"_Never knew I could feel like this . . ._"

I stilled then, listening, and though all logic told me to be firm, my heart swelled at the words, and I knew that there was no more resisting.

"_Like I've never seen the sky before.  
Want to vanish inside your kiss,  
Every day I love you more and more . . ._"

He paused, coming up behind me and gesturing over Montmartre.

"_Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?  
Telling me to give you everything . . .  
Seasons may change, winter to spring,  
But I love you . . . until the end of time._"

And there, on the balcony, as we stood looking over Paris, Christian wrote our song. And I knew in my heart with every note sung that Harold had been wrong – that every skeptic, every doubter of love had been wrong. There was no force more powerful than love, nothing stronger, and ours would last. It had to.


	11. Fairytale Endings

  
  


**Chapter Eleven**  
_Fairytale Endings_

  
  
It was our final rehearsal before the play was to be performed. Tomorrow was opening night, and the air was charged with an energetic feeling. I risked a glance over at Christian, to see him beaming, his derby tilted back from his forehead and eyes alight with a happy glow. His happiness seemed to radiate outward to touch everyone – it struck me in that moment that he was the type of person whose shy, carefree personality filled a room. He had a way of making you feel as if you were the center of the universe when you were held in his gaze.

Or, perhaps, I was slightly biased. I offered him a smile in return over the Argentinean's shoulder, then continued with the song.

"_Come what may!  
Come what may!  
I will love you!  
Until my dying day!_"

Then the song began to fade, and everyone wore a smile as we looked at each other in triumph. We were finally doing it; we were proving love conquered all –

But the happy moment was ruined as a voice that had not been part of the rehearsal sounded out in the renovated dance hall.

"I don't like this ending!"

The Duke, speaking from his place of honor at the foot of the stage, where there would be an audience crowded the very next evening.

"Don't like the ending, my dear Duke?" Harold asked, stepping forward.

I glanced toward him and saw a look of consternation on his face – and who could blame him? After all, if the financier of the entire show wasn't happy, that meant the production was at risk. I broke apart from the Argentinean and folded my arms across my chest in a gesture of annoyance.

The Duke had risen from his seat, and now looked at us all in search of an answer. "Why would the courtesan choose the penniless sitar player over the _maharajah_ –" he asked, making an imperious gesture in the air with his hand, "– who is offering a lifetime of security? That's _real_ love."

He paused, and my discomfort rose as he went on, "Once the sitar player has satisfied his lust, he will leave the courtesan with nothing. I suggest in the end, the courtesan choose the maharajah."

As his words tapered off, it became clear to everyone that there was no _suggestion_ about it. The Duke, used to having his every wish granted, out of a lifetime of privilege, was making a demand.

"But – but, sorry!" It was Toulouse who came forward through the cast of actors, dancers, and musicians to put up a protest. "But that ending does not uphold the Bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and –"

"I don't care about your ridiculous dogma!" the Duke shouted rather suddenly, silencing the painter's words. "Why shouldn't the courtesan choose the maharajah!?" he demanded forcefully.

"_Because she doesn't love you!_" Christian's words rang out, silencing the cacophony, as everyone chose to instead stare at the normally quiet writer. In the hush, he seemed to realize his error, but by then it was too late.

"Him. Him. Because she doesn't – she doesn't love – him," he stammered in correction of himself.

"Oh, I see," the Duke said slowly, a gaze of dislike and disdain lingering on Christian before he turned sharply back to Harold, his tone short and clipped.

"Monsieur Zidler, this ending will be rewritten," he informed us, "With the courtesan choosing the maharajah, and without the lovers' secret song. It will be rehearsed in the morning, ready for the opening tomorrow night."

Harold was the first to recover from the shock of Christian's words, and stepped forward, protesting, "But my dear Duke, that will be quite impossible –"

"Harold," I interrupted, deciding that I would have to try to put this right again myself. I could see everything crumbling, and I was possibly the only one who could fix it.

"The poor Duke is being treated _appallingly_," I went on in an incredulous tone, before turning to the Duke and moving slowly down the steps. I could see the look in his eyes – I knew what he wanted.

"These silly writers let their imaginations run away with them," I told him carelessly, as if I'd expected no less out of the rehearsal. "Now, why don't you and I have a little supper . . . and afterwards, you can let Monsieur Zidler know how you prefer the story to end, hmm?" I purred, a brow lifting in suggestion.

The Duke's eyes swept up and down me, and a thin smile curled beneath his mustache. "The Gothic Tower?"

"I'll see you there," I responded with a coquettish smile, then turned and sashayed away.

I could feel Christian's gaze boring into my back – I knew without looking, the expression of hurt I would see on his face. He wouldn't understand why I was doing this, but it was only one last time . . . I would have to make him see why I was doing it.

Backstage, Elizabeth – a new girl of no more than sixteen that Harold had hired, and who I couldn't help but see turning into a story much like mine – took the elaborate headdress I had been wearing in rehearsal. I gave her an absent thanks, then patted down my hair and started toward my dressing room.

Before I made it that far, however, Christian – who had been waiting off to the side of the hallway – interrupted me and pulled me around the corner.

"I don't want you to sleep with him," he protested, though he did not have to speak the words for me to know as much.

I turned to face him, my heart in my eyes, willing him to see things as I did – willing him to understand what I was doing, and moreover, _why_.

"He can destroy everything," I responded weakly. He was making an already difficult task even harder. "It's for us."

He said nothing, and I pressed on, reminding him, "You promised. You promised me that you wouldn't be jealous. You . . ."

I sighed, knowing I couldn't truly ask something like that of him. I couldn't ask him to withhold his feelings – I could only hope he would turn a blind eye to what I was going to do. "It will be all right," I assured him softly.

"No," he pleaded again, voice cracking with emotion.

"Yes, it will," I insisted, then sighed. "He's waiting for me."

I started to turn away, but his hand caught at my elbow with another protestation. "No . . . no."

I sighed again, and leaned up to whisper in his ear softly, "_Come what may . . ._"

He drew in a shaky breath and nodded, though as I leaned back again, I could still see the doubt in his eyes.

"Come what may," he repeated, then I turned to go.

I could only hope as much would really be true.


	12. The Gothic Tower

  
  


**Chapter Twelve**  
_The Gothic Tower_

  
  
The Gothic Tower had always been infamous for its dark aspect – clients with less conventional tastes usually preferred it to the other boudoirs of the courtesans, and I wasn't surprised that the Duke would choose it as his setting. Fitting to the situation, I had chosen a long, dramatic black dress, the bodice tightly laced and sleeveless, with a strap going over only one shoulder. A pair of black satin gloves reached just past my elbows, a veil descending from my hat shielding my face.

I drew in a breath and swept through the entryway of the tower, pausing just within the doorway to lift the gauzy lace material of the veil.

"My dear Duke," I breathed, "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

He was waiting there, suit coat exchanged for a burgundy smoking jacket. That same smile, condescending and insincere, spread across his face as his eyes settled on me.

"Not at all, my dear," he responded with a lecherous look, "It was well worth the wait."

I gave a seductive smile in return and walked slowly around him, well-aware of his gaze trailing after me with an unveiled expression of lust. I paused in front of the fireplace, tilting my head to the side as I began to tug off one of the gloves, making my movements slow and deliberate. I had learned from time and experience that men liked to look at me in the light of a fire – Christian had described my hair as a halo of flame reflected in candlelight – and from the look on the Duke's face, I could see it was having a similar effect on him.

"The boy has a ridiculous obsession with me," I told him lightly, as if Christian's 'secret love' for me happened to be one grand joke.

His expression darkened at the mention of the writer he despised with such passion, but I pressed onward, my voice evenly tempered. "I mean, I indulge his fantasy because he's talented. We need him . . . but only until tomorrow night."

Acting had never been quite this difficult – lying about Christian, denying what we shared – but everything came at a price, and if I didn't fix this, we would pay dearly.

"Yes," the Duke responded and stepped toward me, a slight sneer finding its way onto his face as he spoke of 'the writer.' "I've always thought he rather fancied you. Rather ridiculous of him, to think that you could fall in love with the likes of _him_."

_When you could have someone like me instead_, I could hear implied in the tone that made it seem utterly preposterous that I could love Christian. Something inside me fought against this, but I had to know it was for the best – wasn't this what I was trying to convince him of from the very start?

"Well." His voice broke into my reverie, and he came forward to gesture me toward the long table that was set up, a no doubt lavish and carefully prepared dinner set out atop it.

"Enough about that," he went on, as if we'd been talking about something so below him that the very idea disgusted him. "Shall we dine, my sweet?"

The delicacies proved to be common of the upper class. They preferred to have their food rich, yet insubstantial – perhaps like everything else in their lives. I could see everything working perfectly to my plans, but a sinking feeling pervaded in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn't understand why. Shouldn't I be happy that everything was working out?

This was for the best, I had told myself, and yet an increasing sense of dread threatened to smother completely the insistence that this was something that _must_ be done.

The Duke rose and moved down the length of the table toward me, coming to a halt beside my chair. "When this production succeeds," he whispered, "You will no longer be a can-can dancer – but an actress."

He paused, and added with emphasis, "I will make you a _star_."

I looked away, pretending modesty, and he bent to press his lips – cold and sending an uncomfortable shiver down my spine – to my neck.

Then he straightened again and said, "Come, I have something for you."

I rose, wondering what he could possibly have for me, and he took my hand, leading me toward one of the attendants who stood nearby. The Duke gestured to him, and the man offered a large velvet box that he held – revealing an elaborate diamond necklace that sparkled against the midnight blue lining.

I gasped in surprise – something the Duke was apparently pleased by – and gave him an uncertain glance.

In response he reached for the necklace, lifting it out of its bed of silk, and moved to fasten it around my neck. The clasp locked with a click, and it hung heavily there, like a collar.

He leaned down and breathed against my skin, "Accept it as a gift from this maharajah . . . to his courtesan."

I lifted my fingers to the strings of diamonds, to find the sparkling jewels cold as ice beneath my touch.

"And – and the ending?" I questioned, the impulse to ask about this having come seemingly from nowhere.

My throat tightened in reflex – why had I asked him that, now? – and I unconsciously held my breath.

"Let Zidler keep his fairytale ending," he responded, and I lifted my gaze to the mirror, where our eyes met.

I started to reply, but he took my hand again and led me out onto the balcony that extended from the tower. "You and I shall make our own ending."

Then he advanced toward me, thin lips pressing affectionless kisses to my lips, my neck, and my back. I stood rigid, unable to relax, my eyes unconsciously wandering toward the dark shape of the Moulin Rouge hovering nearby, the red sails of the windmill casting a strange, fiery glow on the street below.

A shape emerged from the nightclub, nearly deserted in preparation for the upcoming show, and as he came closer, I could see Christian's familiar features put into surreal relief against the night.

He paused and looked up at me, a pained expression on his face, and my grasp tightened on the balcony railing – the frigid stone calling to mind a fitting comparison to the man who stood behind me.

I gazed down at Christian, then drew in a slow breath and sang softly, "_Come what may . . . I will love you . . . until my dying day._"

I could see his expression shift as my words carried on the wind, and then with a sudden jolt, I gasped out a single word that would ruin everything – "No."

The Duke looked up, his expression incredulous.

"No?" he repeated, looking over my shoulder, and I could sense his outrage as understanding dawned.

"Oh, I see," he said, dangerously quiet. "Our very own penniless sitar player."

I turned and moved around him as Christian walked away below. I stepped back into the interior of the tower, realization striking me as to the weight of what I had just done – but suddenly it didn't seem to matter anymore. I loved Christian, and I couldn't hide it. I couldn't betray him like this, even if it was what was expected of me.

The Duke entered behind me, anger radiating off him as the glass-paned doors slammed shut at his back.

I spun around to face him, hesitating. "Dear Duke –"

"_Silence_!" he yelled, and stepped forward, his hands gasping my wrists like bands of iron.

I cried out, struggling against him, and I could see the fury in his eyes. He forced me down to my knees, voice quaking in anger. "You made me believe that you _loved_ me . . ."

"No," I protested, trying to wrest my hands free as he reached behind me and grasped the necklace, tearing it from around my neck and casting it aside, where it landed with a metallic clatter against the floor.

I scrambled up from my hands and knees and pulled free of him, running toward the table, but he followed and reached out for my arm. I swept dishes off the table in a futile attempt to free myself, silver and glass meeting the floor with a shattering crash. Then he had both my arms in his grasp from behind, fingers tightening to the point I was certain bruises would be left behind.

I struggled against him, only to be thrown to the floor, and there was no use bothering to scream – everyone else had left the tower as instructed, and no one would come to save me.

I sat there motionless, shaking with fear and anger of my own, a sudden cold feeling fusing itself in my limbs. He tore the comb free that had held my hair up, then pulled me to my feet again as my hair cascaded down from its arrangement. His lips found my neck in forceful kisses, then moved to my back.

I cried out as his teeth sank into the bare skin there, and pulled away again, but he locked an arm around my waist, his free hand snaking down the front of my bodice.

Tears of shame and humiliation began to run down my face, and I could only think of Christian – his gentle kindness, his consideration of my feelings and my needs. I stood frozen in shock, unable to will myself to move or to get away. It wasn't the first time I had endured harsh treatment, but it was almost impossible to comprehend what was happening.

Only a vague awareness existed in the back of my mind as the Duke began to unlace my dress, impatient overcoming care as he finally simply grasped the delicate material and ripped it off.

I covered my face with my hands, trying to force myself to believe that this nightmare wasn't real, but then his hands were on my arms again and he threw me forcefully back onto the bed, stalking toward me.

I closed my eyes and waited for what would come, trembling with the sense of violation. Then everything suddenly went still, and the only sound I could hear was my own pulse pounding my ears.


	13. The Price of Love

  
  


**Chapter Thirteen**  
_The Price of Love_

  
  
I opened my eyes and willed my heart to slow its impossibly rapid rhythm inside my chest, and there at the end of the bed saw Chocolat, who stood with a look of stricken horror on his face. I sat up and slid off the bed, to see what he was looking down – the Duke, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, clearly unconscious, with blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

I stared down at him in a mixture of anger and loathing, before simply brushing past and moving numbly toward the door. My dress was still lying in tatters on the floor, but I didn't bother to retrieve it, intent on fleeing the tower as quickly as possible.

I nearly ran the block to Christian's garret with Chocolat in my wake, and pushing past someone who was entering the building, felt my way up the stairs through the tears that blinded my vision.

Seconds later, I burst unceremoniously through the door, knowing that Christian would be waiting in misery, trying to understand what I was doing and tell himself that it was all right. I had reached the contrary realization all too late, it seemed – it _wasn't_ all right, and nothing was going to make it be all right.

He looked up from the window as I entered and with a glance took in my appearance, and I knew what he saw – reddened eyes, my hair ruined, and the fact that I was now only half-dressed. He opened my mouth to ask what had happened, but I rushed forward and threw my arms around him, clinging for what seemed dear life.

Never had he seen me so disheveled, and as I held onto him, he tentatively returned the embrace, most likely scared to see me in such a state.

"I _couldn't_," I told him, the words rushing out seemingly on their own. "I couldn't go through with it. I saw you there, and I felt everything, and I couldn't pretend."

I paused, and my tone turned panicked, "And the Duke, he saw – he saw."

I stopped to draw in a breath, and leaned against him, crying. "Christian . . . I love you."

His arms wrapped around me a bit more tightly, holding me close.

"It's okay," he murmured comfortingly.

"And I couldn't do it – I didn't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to lie. And he knows! He knows . . . he saw," I continued frantically, my mind whirling. Usually the decisive one, now I merely looked up at him helplessly, willing him to know what to do.

"You're all right. It's all right, you don't have to pretend anymore," he said gently, smoothing my hair back from my forehead.

"We'll leave. We'll leave tonight," he added firmly.

"Leave?" I asked, staring up at him in wonder. "But – what – the show . . ."

"I don't care. I don't care about the show," he told me with conviction. "We love each other, and that's all that matters."

His unfaltering belief in love cemented this further for me, and I nodded my agreement, while allowing this new and foreign concept of freedom grow in my mind. Yes, we would leave – we would start over, put the Moulin Rouge behind us, and start our own life.

Our life together.

"Yes – yes, as long as we have each other," I said firmly.

"Chocolat," Christian spoke up suddenly, looking toward the quiet man who had been hovering in the doorway. "Take Miss Satine to her dressing room to get the things she needs. No one must see you, do you understand?"

"I understand," I heard Chocolat reply from behind.

Christian turned back to me, his eyes alight with a fiery sparkle. "Darling, you go and pack. I'll be waiting."

Then he leaned down to kiss me, and when he pulled back I saw he wore a reassuring smile on his lips. I returned it, pushing away my doubts and uncertainties. Love would get us through this.

Love could conquer anything, as long as you believed in it, I told myself, but still something lingered . . .

  
  
I returned to my dressing room at the Moulin Rouge, the lavish things the Duke had purchased on my behalf failing to touch me even in the least. They were just that – things. Once, it might have mattered to me, but now it was all nothing. I had little time to think about what to pack – I would need clothes, of course, and they were stuffed unceremoniously into a valise. I left behind the elaborate costumes that I wore as the Sparkling Diamond – in my new life with Christian, I wouldn't need any of it.

My eye did catch on my jewelry box, however – the lacquered rosewood box contained a small fortune in jewels and trinkets that had been gained over the length of my 'career,' and while I didn't care to have such vestiges of my now past life follow me into the future, I decided that they would best be sold.

The money could build a foundation for me and Christian – it would be enough to support us for a while, until we could get on our feet. I had little doubt in my mind that, despite his current penniless state, Christian would be able to write for money.

I was in the process of dropping diamond necklaces – always diamonds . . . the men seemed to find it amusing to present the 'Sparkling Diamond' with diamonds, and there was the song to cement my reputation – into my handbag when I jumped at a voice from behind.

"Forgive the intrusion, cherub."

Harold. How long had he been there?

Startled, I turned to look at him, then dropped the bag where it was and moved over to the dressing screen to pick up a robe and pull it on. "You're wasting your time, Harold," I told him shortly.

I knew what was coming – he was going to try to convince me to stay with the Duke, a man who had just attacked me like some kind of common predator who stalks around in the shadows of Montmartre's streets. There was no convincing to be done this time, however – I owed a great deal to Harold, but I had paid my bill in full.

"Stop it," he demanded. "You don't understand. The Duke is going to kill Christian."

The pronouncement had come so bluntly, so suddenly, that I stopped dead and drew in a gasp.

"The Duke is insanely jealous," Harold went on. "Unless you do his ending and sleep with him tomorrow night, the Duke will have Christian killed."

I turned back to the mirror, wiping unbidden tears from my face, and took the moment to allow the weight of what Harold was saying to sink in.

"He can't scare us," I finally managed, in a tone more even than what I felt inside, and turned to look at him again.

"He's a powerful man," Harold countered seriously. "You know he can do it."

Suddenly, I felt unbelievably angry at Harold, and shrugging off the dressing gown, I threw it to the floor with a vehemence that surprised even myself. It surprised him as well, judging from the way he started at me, incredulity mixing with an anger of his own.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and I wondered if he would attempt to physically restrain me from leaving.

"I don't need you anymore!" I shouted at him, my breath coming in ragged gasps now. "All my life you made me believe that I was only worth what someone would _pay_ for me! But Christian loves me. He loves me, Harold. _He loves me_. And that is worth _everything_."

The feelings I hadn't even been conscious of welled to the surface, and my tirade continued, Harold remaining speechless in his chair.

"We're going away from you, away from the Duke, away from the Moulin Rouge!" I cried, then said with finality, "Goodbye, Harold."

I turned toward the door, expecting that to be the end of it, but that was far from all.

As Harold spoke again, his voice was solemn and quiet. "You're dying, Satine."

He paused, adding more softly, "You're dying."

I hesitated in the doorway and leaned against the frame, feeling suddenly unable to hold myself upright of my own power. Unbidden, a sigh escaped my lips – and with it, a cough. And then I knew. My mind was swimming, trying to comprehend it all.

"Another trick, Harold?" I asked quietly.

"No, my love," he answered seriously. "The doctor told us."

I turned uncertainly away from him and looked to Marie, begging for reassurance. "Marie?"

But the woman who had always been more like family to me than my own aunt, the only family I remembered, simply looked away as if unable to answer.

"I'm dying," I whispered to myself, leaning up from the doorframe and moving slowly, unsteadily, across the room. I sank into a chair alongside the window as my legs numbed, unable to support me any longer.

In its cage, the little bird that had for so long been a symbol of hope for me chirped sadly, as if aware of what was happening.

"_I was a fool to believe_," I sang bitterly to myself. "_A fool to believe. It all ends today, yes, it all ends today . . ._"

"Send Christian away," Harold prompted, moving toward me. "Only you can save him."

I shook my head, and stated without ego, but the mere certainty of truth, "He'll fight for me."

"Yes," he agreed, then suggested, "Unless he believes you don't love him."

"What?" I looked up in shock, and shook my head more firmly.

"You're a great actress, Satine," Harold insisted. "Make him believe you don't love him –"

"No," I protested, my tone strained.

I knew how important love was to Christian – I had learned its value myself, and now Harold was asking me to do something I couldn't do. I couldn't take that away from Christian. I could make my own sacrifice, but to do that would shatter him.

"Use your talent to save him," he pressed. "Hurt him. Hurt him to save him. There is no other way."

He paused, then went on, "The show must go on, Satine. We're creatures of the underworld – we can't afford to love."

I stared desolately out the window, focusing on the lightening sky. Dayglow was visible on the horizon – dawn would be here soon.

"_Today's the day . . . when dreaming ends . . ._"

Love had a price, but could I afford to pay it?


	14. How the Story Really Ends

  
  


**Chapter Fourteen**  
_How the Story Really Ends_

  
  
Harold went off to see to the rest of the production, and I began to prepare. Tonight may have been opening night, but the premiere of _Spectacular Spectacular_ would be nothing compared to the other performance I was going to give.

Marie helped me to dress in a somber suit of grey, and more than ever before I was conscious of my own difficulty breathing. I wondered how long I had been gradually wasting away, before I even knew it. It was a harsh blow to realize what was happening, but how could I not have noticed it before? My fainting spells, the hacking coughs – I was so blind to it all. Hadn't I seen it enough to realize I'd taken consumption?

I stared at my reflection in the mirror in consideration – strange, I didn't look like a woman who was dying.

On the outside, while not a glowing picture of health, I didn't look terribly different from usual. I had always been fair, and while it was now turning to a sort of pallor, I still wasn't noticeably ailing. It shared a complexity with so man things about life in Montmartre – on the outside, everything might look beautiful, but on the inside, it's crumbling apart.

I finished cleaning up the smeared remains of my makeup, then raised my hands to lower the veil on my hat.

"_Inside my heart is breaking,  
My makeup may be flaking,  
But my smile still stays on . . ._"

I sang quietly to myself, and glanced to Marie, before continuing.

"_Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance –  
Another heartache, another failed romance.  
On and on, does anybody know  
What we are living for?_"

I emerged from my dressing room and began to take the walk through the backstage of the Moulin Rouge, where preparations were still busily commencing for the show – seamstresses sewing the curtains and doing last minute alterations of costumes, technicians painting and hammering and sawing – but I looked upon it all with a sort of detachment.

"_I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now,  
I'll soon be turning 'round the corner now.  
Outside the dawn is breaking,  
But inside the dark I'm aching to be free!_

The show must go on,  
The show must go on . . ."

I came out onto the stage, and the spotlight fell across me.

"_I'll top the bill, I'll earn the kill,  
I have to find the will to carry  
On with the, on with the –  
On with the show . . ._"

Harold was standing by the open doorway, through which the morning light was streaming, and his voice filled the air as I walked by.

"_On with the show, on with the show!  
The show . . . must . . . go . . . on!_"

Yes, the show would go on, just as Harold had always instilled in me, but my mind swam as I walked the short distance to Christian's garret. I tried not to question the plan – there would be no other way I could force him to leave, to keep him safe. If I told him the truth, he would want to stay and fight for me, to get me away from the Duke. But he couldn't fight Death, and I couldn't allow him to sacrifice himself, not for me.

Keeping the thought of protecting him at the front of my mind, I steeled my resolve and opened the door of the garret.

Christian was standing at the window, leaning against the frame, and I knew he had been watching the sun rise over the windmill-graced horizon as we had done together countless times. He turned to face me as the door swung open, brows furrowing in concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and for a moment I thought my nerves would fail me.

But I drew in a breath, the words tumbling out faster than natural. "I'm staying with the Duke."

At his look of confusion, as if it were absolutely impossible that I should come in and say such a thing, I continued hastily, "After I left you, the Duke came to see me. He offered me everything – everything I've ever dreamed of. But he has one condition – I must never see you again."

I tried to make it seem as if I were happy about this, but I knew my words sounded hollow and untruthful – exactly what they were. "I'm sorry," I offered detachedly, though that was the most sincere thing I had said thus far.

"What are you talking about?" Christian asked incredulously, stepping toward me.

"You knew who I was –" I started, by way of explanation.

"What are you saying?" he interrupted. "What about last night – what we said?"

I straightened to my full height, setting my face in an impersonal, unreadable expression.

"I don't expect you to understand," I said coldly. "The difference between you and I is that you can leave any time you choose. But this is my home. The Moulin Rouge is my home."

"No, there must be something else," he insisted, obviously convinced of it. "This – this can't be real –"

I turned away from him, my breath coming shortly, and gasped for air. This had become infinitely harder than I had even imagined, but the reminder of my illness was a painful one. I couldn't leave with Christian, knowing what would inevitably happen to me. It was better this way.

But he followed me to the door, reaching out and clutching at my arm.

"There's something the matter," he said, and demanded, "Tell me what it is, tell me the truth."

I still pulled away, but he raved on, "Tell me the truth – tell me the truth!"

I slowly my breathing deliberately, and turned to face him.

"The truth?" I echoed coolly. "The truth is, I am the Hindu courtesan . . . and I choose the maharajah."

I paused, and added for emphasis, "That's how the story really ends."

I saw from his expression that the words had their intended effect, but I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment from what I'd done. Instead, staring into his eyes, I could see something die. Something inside him had broken, and I was responsible.

I turned quickly and hurried out, just as thunder boomed and a bolt of lightning crackled across the horizon – and the sky shed the tears I could not.


	15. Le Diamant

  
  


**Chapter Fifteen**  
_Le Diamant_

  
  
I returned to the Moulin Rouge desolate and surely as broken as Christian had appeared. The words I spoke to him, the performance I had given, left a hollow void in my heart that was filled only by my own guilt, and a small sense of loathing at myself that I could be capable of doing such a thing. In my own way, I thought, I was no better than Harold or the Duke – I was more than simply a victim of circumstance, as much as I tried to tell myself otherwise.

Uncertainty ran through my mind, wondering, wondering if perhaps I could have made things a bit different, bargained a little better – or even convinced Christian to leave of his own free will, safe and content in the knowledge that I loved him. I had done what I thought was necessary, but the ends did not truly justify the means.

Harold took the silent nod I gave him as affirmation I had carried out the task. Minutes ticked by slowly, in the way that always makes it seem as if time moves more slowly when you are unhappy, before he and the Duke would both receive their solid proof that I had done what was required of me, in the form of Christian's heartbroken cry – fighting over the sound of the rain pouring outside and the claps of thunder that shook the sky.

I turned to gaze out the window at him, but had to look away after catching only a fleeting glimpse. At the distance, I could make out little more than his silhouette against the hazy sky and rain-drenched street, but that was enough.

Memories came flooding through my mind at a frenetic pace – I realized, the same pace with which our courtship had been carried out, or perhaps it had only seemed to move so quickly.

"Satine!"

_Yes, silly of me, to think that you could fall in love with someone like me._

_I can't fall in love with anyone._

"Satine!"

_Why shouldn't the courtesan choose the maharajah?_

_Because she doesn't love you!_

"Satine!"

_I don't care. I don't care about the show. We love each other, and that's all that matters._

_We're creatures of the underworld – we can't afford to love._

The desperate cries faded away, and it didn't even take another glance out of the window for me to know that Christian was gone. I exhaled a sigh, moving over to sit at my dressing table, and reached for the script that was sitting there, half rolled from frequent use, its pages dog-eared. I stared at it for a lingering moment and began to flip idly through the sheets of paper, reflecting sadly upon the tale of the courtesan and her sitar player.

Then the door opened with no preceding knock and I glanced up to see the Duke standing there. He wore a smug half-smile of satisfaction, the smile of a man who knows he's won, even if he had to cheat to do so. I turned away and stared back into the mirror, watching in the reflection as he strode across the room to stand beside me.

He remained station there for a moment, before with a movement at my left he extended a dark blue velvet box – the same one, I knew, that held the exquisite diamond necklace.

"I do believe that you mistakenly left this in the tower last night, my dear," he stated, setting it down on the tabletop.

I said nothing, simply glanced down at the box, before meeting his eyes in the mirror with a look that I knew was hard, even without turning to my own reflection. There was no more room for a useless façade – the Duke could play all the games he wanted, but I was no longer is marionette. The strings had been cut along with my ties to Christian.

"Well, I shall see you after the show, then. When the curtain falls," he finally continued, then turned to leave.

I didn't move until he was out the door, and even then it was a moment before I summoned the will to open that box, eyes settling on the necklace – made from hundreds of diamonds, all cut of the same perfect shape – that lay inside. Many women would have found it beautiful, and envied me my position, I thought bitterly, slamming the lid shut again.

None of it mattered anymore.

The door opened again, this time with a soft knock, and Marie stepped inside, having come to help me prepare for the show. My breathing had begun to get ragged again, and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew my time was growing short. Somehow, the prospect of death didn't bother me, though – when your existence is such, it might be said that death comes as a welcome relief.

Marie, who had become such a kind and motherly figure to me over the years, rested a comforting hand on my shoulder, but said nothing. Nothing needed to be said – I knew what she was thinking, and I loved her for it.

"Diamonds are forever, Marie," I told her quietly, "That's what they say . . ."

And tonight, I would be _Le Diamant_ one last time.


	16. Opening Night

  
  


**Chapter Sixteen**  
_Opening Night_

  
  
The end of _Spectacular Spectacular_ had indeed been rewritten as the Duke wished it to be, with the courtesan choosing the maharajah – and, I supposed, that was how the story really _was_ ending, though it was not a choice I had willingly made. I went over the new pages a final time, committing the lines to memory, but I was devoid of any excitement I might've had over my first performance on a real stage, in front of a real audience. Christian and I had always shared each other's hopes and dreams, and now all of that had been torn apart.

Marie had just put the finishing touches on my hair and makeup when a knock sounded on the door. I turned, expecting to see Harold there, prepared to give me a dramatic speech before the show – but instead I found the diminutive form of Toulouse outlined in the doorway. I was stricken by his sudden appearance, and despite the fact he wore his costume instead of a tuxedo, I was reminded of the evening he had come backstage to ask me to meet with a new writer he had found.

"Toulouse. What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Christian," he responded in his lisping tone, "I came to talk to you about Christian."

He stepped into the room, and I could see that his face looked worried and distraught, though his eyes held a familiar drugged haze. It was clear Toulouse was choosing to damper his nervousness and stage fright with the company of the Green Fairy.

"I . . ." Trailing off, I hesitated, and looked abruptly back to the mirror, pretending to fuss with a part of my costume in order to get it just so.

I was careful to keep my voice steady and impersonal as I stated, "I don't have anything to say to you about him."

"Satine," he said earnestly, "Christian loves you – I know you must still love him . . ."

He shuffled forward, movements impeded slightly by the awkward pear-shaped costume that he wore, headpiece tucked under his arm. "Tell me what's going on, please."

"It's nothing, Toulouse," I responded sharply. "You wouldn't understand."

I knew he was only concerned for Christian – and, I supposed, myself as well – but his prying was simply too much. Of course I couldn't tell him the truth.

Toulouse gave a long-suffering sigh and dejectedly turned back toward the door. I resolutely decided to leave it at that, but before he exited the room he turned back, and I heard him say softly – almost to himself, "Oh, but I understand more than you know . . ."

  
  
"She is mine!"

Harold's voice boomed clearly from the stage above as I was being put into place with the help of two of the stage hands, preparing for my own entrance on a platform that would rise up to the stage.

As Toulouse began his chant of _I only speak the truth_, I couldn't help but be reminded of his earlier words.

_Christian loves you, I know you must still love him . . ._

He spoke the truth even more than he knew.

I drew in a breath, preparing myself as I came up to the stage, the brilliant colors of the set and the blinding lights assaulting my senses after the time I had spent in the muted atmosphere backstage. Holding my opening note just a few seconds too long, I was given in to coughing, but forced the dizziness back and regained my composure again.

"_Kiss . . . hand . . . diamonds best friend.  
Kiss . . . grand . . . diamonds best friend.  
Men . . . cold . . . girls old . . .  
And we all lose our charms in the end._"

As I performed the routine, each breath was a struggle, each note testing the weakening endurance of my lungs, but I continued on in any case, Harold's old adage repeating itself in my head.

_The show must go on_, so on I went.

"_Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,  
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,  
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,  
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a . . .  
Girl's . . . best . . . friend . . ._"

In all our rehearsals, this had been one of my favorite numbers, but as it was completed and I felt the heavy weight of the diamond choker about my neck, I was simply reminded again – like a slap in the face – how shallow my life had been before.

Then Harold put his arms around me, stating, "She is mine," and the lights went dim.

Outside, it was a cacophony of cheers – the audience absolutely loved the show, and I should be reveling in the applause, but instead I disentangled myself from Harold as soon as the heavy curtains fell closed, and headed backstage, another cough wracking through me.

_The show must go on_, I repeated to myself again, but I wasn't so certain Death cared about a perfect performance.


	17. The Greatest Thing You’ll Ever Learn

  
  


**Chapter Seventeen**  
_The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn . . ._

  
  
"Take more for me, lovey, come on."

Marie's voice was a bit of a distant haze as I struggled for breath, but obediently I tilted my head back and opened my mouth, allowing her to drip the pain-suppressing laudanum onto my tongue. The liquid rolling down my throat would be bring temporarily relief, but only that. We both knew, but at this point it was simply a matter of keeping the pain, the coughing, the shortness of breath at bay for a little while longer, long enough for me to finish the show – to finish my obligations to everyone.

I had come so far from that little orphan girl Harold took in off the streets. It seemed so many years ago now, and I felt unspeakably old, aged not so much by time, but by the ways of hard life and the experiences I had been forced to handle. For years, I had been an expert at playing the cards I was dealt with a straight face that would make an expert poker player proud, no matter if it was a bad hand. I always had that age up my sleeve, one last trick that would get me out of whatever situation I was presented with.

I was not, however, prepared for the voice that came from the doorway, dangerously soft and laced with anger that was driven by pain.

". . . I've come to pay my bill."

I whirled around to see Christian standing there, and my eyes widened reflexively – but I had that famous mask of calm back in place before I could let anything further show.

"You shouldn't be here, Christian," I shot back coldly, and even I was surprised to hear how unconcerned my voice sounded to my own ears – how I made it sound as if Christian's presence was little more than an insolent bother I would be better rid of.

"Just leave," I finished, and pushed past him, out the doorway.

I was intent on simply turning my back and walking away – but he followed, falling into stride behind me with a handful of francs clutched in his hand.

"You made me believe that you loved me. Why shouldn't I pay you?" he demanded in a half-crazed tone, holding the bills up.

I knew the jealousy had consumed him, the doubt and uncertainty eating away at him. Why did he have to come back? Why couldn't he have simply stayed away? He was going to get himself killed, and all because of me. My thoughts swam – I had to get rid of him, and soon, before the Duke discovered that he was here. But it was probably already too late, and my next protest was feeble.

"Please, Christian . . ."

Marie had followed us from my dressing room, and she grabbed at Christian's sleeve, interrupting with a furious tone. "She has to get on the stage!"

For my part, I tried to keep moving, to block out the words that Christian was feverishly speaking, but it was little use, as he reached for me and continued to attempt to hand me the money. The money – another painful reminder of who I was. What I was.

"You did your job so very, very well!" he continued, ignoring my protests and Marie's insistence. "Why can't I pay you like everyone else?"

I shook my head in a futile gesture, I knew, and together we turned a corner – and I immediately recoiled. My breath hitched with a gasp as I saw the Duke's manservant advancing, his revolver drawn and in his hand, ready for the first clear shot he could get at Christian.

I moved between them frantically, knowing that the man – little more than a henchman, really – wouldn't go through me to get Christian, and that brought us at least a few precious seconds, as long as I could stay in the way.

"Please, Christian," I whispered desperately, my eyes welling with tears. "That's not – just leave."

With all my will I poured out that wish that he simply go – turn around and the leave the Moulin Rouge and even Montmartre forever. It was a small price to pay never to see him again if I knew I was saving his life in the process – a willing sacrifice.

"Tell me it wasn't real!" he demanded forcefully, his voice full of anguish, and I could see tears now filled his eyes, the eyes that I so loved, the eyes which were once a brilliant shade of blue, like a summer sky – but which now reflected nothing more than that summer sky clouded with the grey haze of an approaching storm.

"No," I protested, trying to muster the words that would make him go away, but they wouldn't come.

"Why can't I pay you?" he questioned again, and I realized he was doing this for some sort of closure. Maybe giving me that money would help him believe that I really hadn't ever loved him.

By now we were in front of the doors that led out onto the stage, and I could hear Harold's voice booming out for those doors to be opened, even as Christian's demands, full of hurt and betrayal, went on.

"Let me pay! _Let me pay_!" he cried, shaking with the vehemence of it. "Tell me it wasn't real! Tell me you don't love me!"

I sank down to the floor helplessly, now kneeling in front of him, and he took me by the shoulders, still clutching the bills he'd had in hand since his confrontation. I could feel that his hands were trembling, his voice unsteady – he looked as if he could collapse at any moment.

"Tell me you don't love me!" he yelled.

I shook my head, trying to will it all away, praying that somehow he would go – that by some miracle he would leave and this nightmare would end, and he would be saved, but the advancing figure of Warner still loomed in my mind, and I knew he wasn't going to let Christian leave the Moulin Rouge alive.

"Tell me you don't love me!" Christian yelled again, one final time, before a resounding boom broke into the air.

I cried out, for one heart stopping moment believing that the fatal shot had been made, but as we were both bathed by the brilliant luminescence of the stage lighting and I saw the tears glistening clearly in Christian's eyes, I realized what had truly happened. We both turned to see the stunned faces of everyone on the stage as they gaped at us, though the audience did not comprehend what had happened, and sat there in stark silence. Finally, whispers broke out among them, obviously asking their fellow patrons what it was they'd missed in the plot of a show they had – up until now – followed and even enjoyed.

Harold was the first to recover, and he shuffled toward us, his prop sword drawn and pointing in our direction.

"Hahaha!" he laughed over exaggeratedly. "I am not fooled!"

He paused, then elaborated deliberately, "Though he has shaved off his beard and adopts a disguise, mine eyes do not lie! For it is he, the same penniless sitar player, driven mad by jealousy!"

There was another hush after the halting explanation, then a sound of understanding acknowledgement wavered through the assembled crowd, followed by their applause as they granted their approval of this unexpected – yet decidedly clever – twist in the plot.

If only they understood that it was no play they were watching now, no fictional tale of the courtesan and her penniless sitar player, but the true story of the courtesan and her penniless writer – one that could not have a happy ending, doomed to tragedy.

Christian moved again before I could quite realize what he was doing, his grasp on my arm tighter than that with which he'd ever held it as he pulled me down the few stairs that separated us from the main stage. I stumbled along with little will to resist or even respond, and dropped to the polished flooring of the stage on my hands and knees as he let go.

The audience gave a collective gasp at this treatment, but Christian was immune to it.

"This woman is yours now," he stated coldly, turning to look out at the crowd – at the Duke – before the wad of francs was thrown down harshly, falling to flutter like dead rose petals in front of me.

I stated up at Christian, trembling, as he went on to cry sharply, "I paid my whore!"

He looked down at me then, his eyes and expression revealing a mixture of emotions, from brokenhearted pain, to betrayal and jealousy, to anger and rage – but somewhere beneath, I could still see . . . love. Love was the source of the fire that drove him on to do these things that most certainly were not him. This was not Christian – or perhaps it was; it was the Christian I had created.

"I owe you nothing," he spat, but the venomous tone of his voice had begun to waver, and broke slightly as he continued, "And you are nothing to me."

His shoulders began to shake with silent sobs as he stated, "Thank you for curing me . . . of my ridiculous obsession with love."

With those words, he turned and walked off the stage, leaving my field of vision. I couldn't move – my limbs were weighted down with the force of the words he had just spoken, tears now running uninhibited down my face. I was distantly aware of Harold reciting a line meant singularly for the benefit of the audience, and then he rushed over to my side.

"Pumpkin, it's for the best," he whispered, kneeling down.

He took my hands and began to help me up, but I protested and shook my head, leaning my forehead against my hand as my response escaped in a sob. "No . . ."

"You know it is," he whispered, tone full of sympathy. "The show must go on."

That old adage – I had never wished to hear it any less than I did at that moment, but I allowed him to pull me to my feet, where I stood with my shoulders slumped.

He went on with the lines from the show, the consummate performer. "And now, my bride, it is time to raise your voice to the heavens and say your wedding vows!"

I drew in a voice, certain I couldn't continue –

Then a voice rang out, resonating across the entire theatre.

"_The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!_"

Toulouse, who could never remember his line, had recalled it at the most important moment.

I straightened and turned to face the audience, but more important to look at the aisle leading to the door, where Christian walked toward the exit. He had stopped as well, but he still stood with his back to the stage. I knew that the words had reached him, his own words, and in that moment I knew what I had to do. Love was the most important thing in life – to lose it was greater than any other pain I had ever known.

Worse than having no money, than being out of a home and surviving on the streets – worse than the existence I led before I met him and deluded myself into believing was a good life.

I drew in a breath and began to sing, softly at first, but with growing confidence.

"_Never knew I could feel like this,  
It's like I've never seen the sky before . . ._"

Christian began to walk for the door again, but it was more slowly this time, reluctance burdening his every step, and I kept singing.

"_Want to vanish inside your kiss,  
Every day I'm loving you more and more.  
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?  
Come back to me and forgive everything!_"

I drew out that note as long as possible, and after pausing to draw in a gasp, I continued more softly.

"_Seasons may change, winter to spring . . ._"

Here I hesitated again, able only to whisper the next words, "I love you . . . _till the end of time._"

Christian continued to walk as I sang, but then his steps faltered, and he drew to a complete halt. I watched him breathlessly, everything hanging on his response.

Then, softly, but firmly, he sang in response,

"_Come what may . . ._"

The audience gave a collective gasp and all heads swiveled around to look at him. I exhaled a little sigh, the tension fleeing my body in one relieved moment. He would forgive me – love would conquer all its obstacles. I couldn't deny it anymore.

Then he turned to the stage and began to walk back to me, continuing to sing.

"_Come what may,  
Come what may!  
Come what may!  
I will love you!_"

"_I will love you!_" I returned, my heart swelling.

"_Until my dying . . ._"

"_Day!_" Our voices finished, joining together and rising to fill the theatre – but all I could focus on was him.

"_Come what may!  
Come what may!  
I will love you  
Until my dying –_"

"Christian, he's got a gun!"

Then everything flew into an abrupt flurry of confusion.

Toulouse swing down from a rope and dropped onto the stage, his arms flailing as he pointed frantically toward a flustered Warner. "They're trying to kill you!"

The audience laughed, unaware that Toulouse was actually serious, and Harold yelled for him to shut up, but it was to no avail. Everything became a swell of chaotic movement, Toulouse waving and shouting that the manservant had a gun, while Harold commanded his stage guards to seize Toulouse – or, rather, the maharajah demanding that his guards seize the . . . delirious magical sitar?

Then the stage door flung open and hit the set wall behind it with a bang, the Argentinean walking out casually as if his interruption were nothing.

"No problem, go back to work!" he assured us all striding confidently on stage.

"_No matter what you say!_" Toulouse sang as the music was picked up again under Satie's direction.

"_The show is ending our way!_"

We all joined in the song, Satie and the Doctor moving on stage to join us.

"_You've got to stand your ground  
For freedom, beauty, truth, and love!_"

Each of our individual songs was contributed then, before Christian and I turned to face each other.

"_I will love you,  
Come what may,  
Yes, I will love you,  
Come what may!_

I will love you,  
Until my dying day!"

And we sang together, lifted up above everything by our love for each other – the love that had given us both wings.


	18. Finale

  
  


**Chapter Eighteen**  
_Finale_

  
  
_Come what may . . ._

Hand in hand, Christian and I stood looking at each other as the curtain fell. He had a smile on his face like that I'd never seen before; joyful and relieved, thankful, grateful toward the power that had conquered all – in his mind and, I realized, mine as well, undeniably love. He was the Christian I knew again, loving and lively, his soulful eyes alight and openly conveying everything he was feeling.

Rose petals drifted from above our heads in a gentle shower, their fragrant scent filling the air –

Air that was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe.

"Get ready for curtain call," the stage manager called as he came by, the last strains of music fading away from the orchestra pit.

My breath hitched in my throat as I again tried to inhale, and I gave in to an unwelcome gasp.

Everything seemed to fall away from me as I tilted my head back, struggling for air, my lungs burning and crying out for oxygen. I was becoming dizzy from the lack of it, and lost my balance, only to feel Christian's arms secure around me.

"Satine?" he asked, panicked concern lacing his voice.

I tried to respond, but the only thing forthcoming was a cough, forcing me to further struggle with the absence of air, combined with fright at the lack of control I felt. It was one of the most horrible feelings I'd ever had physically, not being able to catch my breath. My lungs protested against the strain, and for the first time the pain was clearly prominent in a way I knew with utter certainty –

_I was dying_.

"Satine, what's the matter?" Christian's voice sounded through the haze, "Tell me – tell me what's the matter."

He paused, then called out, "Oh, God, somebody get some help!"

Christian eased himself to his knees on the floor, lowering me down in his arms, and I clutched weakly at the material of his shirt. My grasp only remained for a moment, however, before my fingers, numbing and cold, slackened and my hand dropped back down involuntarily.

I vaguely heard Harold calling for the doctor, but he knew as well as I did that it was of no use – the consumption had been there too long, they'd found it too late, and there was nothing to be done. This was the end, and the feeling struck me with regret simply for the fact that I would have to leave Christian.

Everything else, I could accept, but I couldn't leave him – I couldn't let go.

Struggling for the words – the effort it took simply to speak wracking my already pained lungs further – I could only manage a whisper through the coughs that threatened to claim what little air I could summon.

"I'm sorry, Christian," I said softly, "I-I'm dying. I'm so sorry."

I wasn't quite certain what I was apologizing for, simply that I felt the need to – there was a great deal for me to feel sorry for, from what I'd done to him, even if those actions had been forgiven, to the simple fact that my life was ending and I was destined to leave him alone despite my best efforts against it.

_Come what may . . ._

"Shh, you'll be all right, you'll be all right," he insisted, trying to lull and reassure me when he wasn't even sure himself. I could feel him trembling, shaking with fear and incomprehension of what was happening – devastated by the idea that this could happen.

"It's cold . . ." I was crying now, not from the physical pain, but the emotional. I wasn't ready to die – I wasn't ready to leave yet. I had so much to do, so much to say . . .

"Hold me," I whispered.

His arms tightened around me, and I could see him looking away, distressed, distraught – but then his eyes returned to me, and I maneuvered my gaze to meet his.

"I love you," he told me, his voice half-strangled with the effort to remain strong – strong for me. But the tears were escaping uninhibited, rolling down his cheeks, his expression helpless and like that of a child.

_I will love you . . ._

"You've got to go on, Christian," I whispered, drawing in another breath.

It was becoming increasingly more difficult, but I had to have these words with Christian. I couldn't leave him without that closure, without that comfort, however small it was.

"Can't go on without you," he responded with a vehemence that tore at my heart, his head shaking as he denied the very suggestion that he should be expected to.

"You've got so much to give," I insisted, desperate to have him know. "Tell our story, Christian."

"No," he said again, and began to shake his head. His response was muffled with abject grief, anguish, pain – all of which I felt, and wished I could take away from him.

"Yes," I whispered again, more firmly. "Promise me . . . _promise me_."

"No . . . no," he protested, though more weakly this time.

His resolve was crumbling, and my urgency increased. Everything was beginning to drift away by now – the pain was lessening, becoming little more than a distant ache, and all I could see was Christian, as I focused all my will on him.

_Until my dying day . . ._

Even if all my love wasn't strong enough to keep me here.

"Yes," I said softly, "That way . . . I'll always be with you . . ."

The sound of the broken sob he gave was the last thing I would hear while I still remained within the circle of his arms. It resounded against the silence of the stage, then everything fell away, and I was left to look down from above, unable to interfere, but always there to watch over him.

_I'll always be with you._

_Come what may . . ._

  


The end.


End file.
